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Poems 

From Desk and 

Door-step 

FLOYD D. RAZE 



PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY 

REVIEW AND HERALD PUBLISHING ASSN. 
Washington, D. C. 






LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

MAH 31 1906 

I-, Copyright Entry 



db 



X 



Copyrighted 1906, by Floyd D. Raze. 



4. 



To my wifey 

Lura B, Raze, this volume is 

affectionately dedicated 



WHITTIER 

Bard of New England, dead and gone, 

I read thy verses o'er and o'er, 
How fondly now I pause upon 

The lines I've read so oft before ! 

Like music that is wafted far 

At twilight o'er a quiet sea, 
Or the soft light of some high star 

Thy rippling measures come to me. 

I love them as I did of old, 

I read them still with pleasure new; 

What scenes, what mem'ries they unfold! 
It was from them that first I drew 

Th' inspiring voice that bade me try 
The spirit that is found in thee — 

Alas, my hopes aspire too high, 

Thy muse could scarcely stoop to me; 

And yet, some semblance of thy power 
Has ever led my steps along. 
5 



Whittier 

E'en down to this, the present hour, 
I hear the sweetness of thy song. 

And in response to nobler strain, 

And sweeter, tenderer words of thine 

I've dared, for I could not refrain, 
To offer even such as mine. 



CONTENTS 



Memory and Reflection. 
Old Friends 
The River Chippewa 
Success 

Reward of Labor 
Duty 
Mercy . 

There's a Gray Stone 
Ambition 
The Long Ago 
The Little School 
On the Shore 
The Downtrodden 
Worth 

The Churchyard 
Make Me a Man . 
The Spelling Class 
You Can Laugh About 
If I Had Known 
Genius 

The Journey . 
The Uplift 
Hope 

Dear Old Spicerville 
Rewarded 
Thanksgiving 
Sometime 



in the Churchyard 



It Later 



PAGE 

II 
13 
15 
16 
18 

19 
20 
22 
23 

25 
27 
29 
30 
31 
33 
3A 
36 
38 
39 
40 
42 
43 
44 
47 
48 
50 



Contents 



Somewhere 

That Dear Little Mite of 
Life 

Let Us Forget . 
Patience 
'Twuz April . 
To a Human Skeleton 
Home Revisited 
A Song of Winter 
Flown Away . 
What Would You Do? 
The Everlasting Process 
Auld Brig of Ayr . 
It Is Well 
John Hay . 
Good Old Days 
In Boyhood 
Gratitude 
Upward 

Wait Till the Tide Comes 
Eaton County, Mich. 
Not in Vain 
Wait 

Auld Ayr 
Enjoyment 
Christmas Reflections 
Life at Best 
O Tell Me, My Love 
Which Has Won? 
Spring . 
Pluck 

Disappointment 
Alexander 



a Ri 



51 
52 
55 
56 
58 
59 
60 
62 
64 
65 
(>7 
69 
70 
71 
72 
7Z 
74 
79 
80 
80 
81 
83 
83 
84 
86 
87 
89 
90 
91 
93 
95 
97 
99 



Contents 



Fancies and Follies. 




How to be Happy ... 


io8 


Irons in the Fire .... 


. 109 


New Year Resolutions 


III 


Strange Things .... 


. 113 


In Church .... 


115 


Adam Vindicated .... 


. 117 


Then and Now 


119 


Keep Cool ..... 


. 122 


March . . . . . 


124 


Voices of the Night 


. 126 


Adaptability .... 


128 


Preparation .... 


. 130 


Conclusions — On Seeing a Dude . 


131 


Reason ..... 


. 132 


Humanity .... 


134 


He Beat the Devil 


. 135 


The Summer Girl 


137 


The Imitator .... 


139 


The Silent One .... 


. 141 


Whut Won't Love Dew? 


142 


Nero ..... 


• 143 


Poor Czar .... 


144 


What of That .... 


. 146 


Sunshine .... 


148 


Translations. 




The Lorelei .... 


. 150 


Mignon .... 


. . 151 


The Rich Prince .... 


. 152 


Gems from Heine 


153 


Historical Ballads. 




The Desire .... 


. 155 


Washington .... 


161 



Contents 



Montgomery 

John Paul Jones 

Bunker Hill 

Princeton 

Lexington . 

The Wives of Weinsberg 

The Friends, A Medley 
At the Brook . 
The Old Canoe 
The Serpent . 
The Mill . 
The Covenant . 



163 
165 
166 
168 
170 
173 

177 
178 
181 
183 
186 
191 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

" Spare the auld brig, ye Scottish men " . . . 70 

" The old mill's busy days are o'er " . . . . 187 

" Lies the crumbling wreck of the old canoe " . . 182 
" And there leaped the trout through the rapids and shal- 
lows " ....... 53 

" The crystal lake between the hills " . . . 78 



10 



Poems from Desk and 
Door-step 



OLD FRIENDS 

Old friends of long ago, 
Scattered where the four winds blow, 
Come from far and come from near. 
Gather 'round your old chum here. 
Let us talk of other days, 
Let us laugh at other ways — 
What like wrinkled age can know 
All the joys of long ago! 

Olden times when we were young, 
Often have they since been sung; 
Let us live them o'er to-night, 
Gathered in the ruddy light. 
Though our heads are gray and bowed, 
Let us form the beardless crowd, 
Let us mingle here our joys, 
Noisy, thoughtless, village boys. 
II 



Memory and Refection 

Once again let's gather 'round 
Listlessly upon the ground, 
Gather 'neath the maple's shade^ 
Where of old we oft delayed 
Through the noontide of the day, 
Chatting all our cares away. 
There again let's meekly lie 
While the bees go humming by. 

Though the truant's ways are wrong. 
Let the school-bell sing its song, 
Who is left can truly say 
Why we are not there to-day? 
None — the years have laid them low 
'Neath the flowers and 'neath the snow, 
And the west winds, sighing, sweep 
Where the master lies asleep. 

Little's left to us old men 

Of life's threescore years and ten ; 

Few, if any, of the joys 

That we knew as village boys. 

Beckon from a future day — 

We are plodding on the way, 

Looking lingeringly back 

Down the dim, receding track. 

12 



Memory and Reflection 

Old friends of long ago, 

Scattered where the four winds blow, 

Fifty years have passed between 

Winter's snow and summer's green — 

Yet these years of life apart 

Have not severed heart from heart ; 

You are as of old to me — 

Friends deep carved in memory. 



THE RIVER CHIPPEWA 

O SUMMER-BURDENED ChippCWa, 

Along thy winding way 
Beneath the green enrobed trees 

I watch thy waters play. 
Thy banks are decked with purest green, 

Thy pebbled shore below 
Adorns thy course with jewels rare 

And tunes its crystal flow. 

Here stands the pine with sable plume 

Upon the upland side. 
And here the shadowy cedar spreads 

Its long arms o'er the tide, 
13 



Memory and Reflection 

While all between, the alder grows. 
The grape-vine twines its wreath 

To make a lovers' fav'rite bower 
Along the bank beneath. 

Here sing the birds at morning time, 

Here sing the birds at noon. 
At eventide their voices drown 

The river's purling time — 
The robin and the oriole, 

The cat-bird and the wren, 
Make music from the birch top 

And from the brushy glen. 

In sunny days of summer 

Here hums the busy bee. 
And here the happy squirrel sits 

And chatters on the tree. 
While from the leaves springs many a flower 

And many a blossom gay 
Leans smiling o'er the sparkling tide 

That sings along the way. 

Sweet river of my boyhood, 

Thou summer-burdened stream, 

My childhood's earliest pleasure, 
My manhood's latest theme, 

14 



Memory and Reflection 

How dear to me are all thy scenes, 
Thy checkered shade and shine, 

Thy woods, thy flowers, thy birds, thy bees 
Whate'er is thine is mine. 

Nor less to me 's thy beauty 

Than those of greater claim; 
What streams than thee are brighter 

Though known to wider fame? 
Thy sunny^ sparkling waters, 

Thy merry rippled tune. 
Not sweeter 's '* winding Devon," 

Nor gayer " bonny Doon." 



SUCCESS 

I WAIT amid sweet visions of the past. 
Wait patiently the long-delayed return 

Of what in youth was far too dear to last. 

I dwell with patience, thus much must man learn 

Who would not die of longing nor yet give 

To death enough of life to make it live. 

I wait. The doubts which once I entertained 
Have sunk into oblivion, their first home. 

I wait — whate'er I've lost, whate'er I've gained 
Is but as nothing. There is yet to come 

IS 



Memory and Re-flection 

A charmed reality of brighter hue 

Than sweetest dreams that childhood ever knew. 

I wait, not tremblingly, th' approaching hour 

Which I once deemed must hang upon life's close 

Fraught with dread Fear and his unvarying power ; 
I wait the approaching end with more repose 

Than when my fancy viewed it from a day 

Removed by time and years so far away. 

I stand at last, my mortal sun low set, 
To take life's fond adieu. I turn again 

And view the past ; there lies but one regret, 
Too little of my life I've lived for men. 

Too much for self-success — but 'tis too late, 

And e'en for what Fve done I, hopeful, wait. 



THE REWARD OF LABOR 

'Tis not in vain we labor, 

Not fruitless all our toil ; 
E'en though our years are spent upon 

A seeming barren soil, 
i6 



Memory and Reflection 

Some time when, weary with our load, 

We turn that way again, 
We'll find, whate'er may be our fate, 

We've labored not in vain. 

E'en though the desert bound us 

As limitless as air, 
Some welcoming oasis lies 

Beyond the borders there. 
Where, mayhap in the ages past 

Some traveler like thee 
Has dropped with kindly hand a seed — 

Behold to-day, a tree ! 

'Tis not in vain we labor — 

Though we may see it not, 
Some time a beauteous flower will bloom 

Upon this barren spot; 
And, not unmindful of our toil, 

Some wanderer then may know 
How kind we were to think of him, 

" So very long ago." 

If not, there's still a happy thought, 
The thought of duty done, 
17 



Memory and Reflection 

When we look backward o'er our course 
From life's low, sinking sun, 

We'll still have hope, though in our path 
No bloom of flower we see — 

Some are rewarded in this world, 
And some in worlds to be. 



DUTY 

Thou child of fate, whose goal is fame, 

Thou who art led from day to day 
By promise of a future name. 

Thou who hast toiled along the way 
In hope of promised pelf or power. 

Which through long years has led thee far. 
If verging on thy sunset hour 

Thy hopes with thee are all at war — 

If fame and fortune ne'er be thine, 
Some pleasure yet is left to thee. 

Some laurels still doth fate entwine. 
Some glory 's yet thy meager fee; 

There's pleasure, though thou hast not won 
The goal for which thou'st bravely fought — 
i8 



Memory and Reflection 

There's honest pride, if thou hast done 
Thy duty all, forsaking nought. 



MERCY 

Fling wide the gates of Mercy 

To Kindness and her train ; 
Let not the light of Heaven shine 

Upon the world in vain — 
Fling wide the gates of Mercy 

To Misery's pleading throng, 
They have been barred to human ills 

And human woes too long. 

Who gave to man his fellow's life 

To take or spare at will? 
What is that man who dares gainsay 

His Lord's, '' Thou shalt not kill " ? 
Or if so far one stoop to crime, 

Is 't pleasing in God's sight 
That law shall do a second wrong 

That makes the first not right? 

Forbid ! O, Mercy, in thy sway, 
Forbid, for Jesus' sake! 
19 



Memory and Reflection 

'Tis God alone can give a life, 
'Tis God alone should take. 

And he who makes the gallows' noose 
Is little more than he 

Who suffers by that hangman's hand 
Upon the gallows-tree. 



THERE'S A GRAY STONE IN THE 
CHURCHYARD 

There's a gray stone in the churchyard, 
Rising o'er a grassy mound. 
That is weathering to a level year by year ; 
There the wild rose buds in summer, 
And the violets bloom around, 
In remembrance of the one I loved so dear. 

Long ago we knew each other 

In the schoolhouse 'cross the way — 
There I often took her little hand in mine. 
While we journeyed through the noon hour 
Of a happy summer day, 
Through the clover bloom and smiling eglantine. 



Memory and Reflection 

Often, too, of winter evenings, 
Far across the level snow, 
To the music of the silver bells in tune, 
When the far-off stars shone palely 
O'er the paler earth below, 
Oft we sledged along beneath the waxen moon. 

Those were days of happy childhood, 
Followed on by happier years. 
E'en the wild birds in the orchard were less gay ; 
O, how diff'rent were those past times 
From the gloom that now appears! 
This is night and that the noontide of life's day. 

In tlie church whose bell resounded 
From that lofty, sun-kissed tower. 
Saw I first the happy smile of my loved bride ; 
While in all their tender beauty 

Bloomed full many a blushing flower. 
And the wild birds sang their carols just outside. 

In the church whose bell tolls yonder 
From that gray and gloomy tower, 
When the summer birds had flown so far away. 
And the chilly winds had withered 
Every precious summer flower. 
There I turned again one gloomy autumn day. 

21 



Memory and Reflection 

There, within the chancel's shadow, 
In her robes of sable hue, 
With a changeless smile upon her lips impressed, 
Lay my bonny, bonny sweetheart. 
Slept my fair young bride and true. 
With her pale hands folded^ thus, across her breast. 

There's a gray stone in the churchyard. 
Rising o'er a grassy mound. 
That is weathering to a level year by year; 
There the wild rose buds in summer, 
And the violets bloom around, 
In remembrance of the one I loved so dear. 



AMBITION 

What would I do some day? O fleeting dreams, 

Bright-tinted visions of an April morn 
Whose glory, were it but the half it seems, 

Had laughed these disappointments e'en to scorn. 
What would I do ? Aye, rise as does the sun — 

From lowliness to splendor I would climb, 
What man can do that would I too have done ; 

But time has foiled me — O relentless time ! 



Memory and Reflection 

What have I done? I look back o'er the years 

Where dreams Hve on and on in memory, 
From cloudless morn a somber noon appears, 

I grieve to think of what the night may be. 
What have I done? I've struggled with my might, 

Borne disappointments, fallen 'neath their load; 
The cherished goal oft all but lost from sight. 

Oft through the gloom I've groped my weary road. 

This have I done, this am I doing still ; 

Though many promised years have flown away, 
Still toil I on not half way up the hill, 

Not half way up the hill at noon of day. 
What would I do ? All that the great have done ; 

What have I done ? Nought that I sought to do ; 
What will I do? Still struggle on and on 

Perhaps I yet may win ere life be through. 



THE LONG AGO. 

A SUMMER-NIGHT in the long ago, 
A song of the whip-poor-will, 

A brook that sang in a muffled flow 
At the foot of a sloping hill ; 
^3 



Memory and Reflection 

A heaven of blue bedecked with gold, 

A plain where the dewdrops shone, 
A wood whose shadowy outline told 
Of the beams of the misty moon — 
Such were the scenes in an olden time, 

A time when I was young; 
Such were the sounds, a sweeter chime 
Than ever bells have rung. 
I see them and I know them, 

The blue vault and the star — 
I listen where, below them, 
The babbling waters are. 



A summer-night in the long ago, 

A checkered lover's lane, 
Its deeper shade, its brighter glow, 

Its glen, its moon-lit plain ; 
The rustling oak, the whisp'ring pine 

With friendly boughs outspread. 
The soft, warm hand that lay in mine. 

The twinkling stars o'erhead ; 
The eyes that, sparkling, sought my own, 

The smile I scarce could see — 
Ah, that those moments should have flown 

So very rapidly! 

24 



Memory and Reflection 

I'll search them out. I'll find them 
Where the babbling waters flow, 

And in my memory bind them 
With the joys of long ago. 



THE LITTLE SCHOOL 

I WELL remember, long ago, 

The little school that stood 
Just where the roadway bends around 

A little patch of wood ; 
And I remember, too, the bench 

Along the inner wall, 
By which we used to stand to read, 

** Leaves have their time to fall." 

There oft I've stood with open book. 

While with abated breath, 
I galloped with the Light Brigade, 

" Into the jaws of death." 
Or surging on o'er hill and dale, 

With pendulum-like sway, 
I took the road, with Sheridan, 

Full '' twenty miles away." 

25 



Memory and Reflection 

E'en now, through all this lapse of time, 

I still remember well 
The sound of Freedom's dying shriek 

"As Kosciusko fell "— 
And pause again to wipe away 

The sympathetic tears 
For " the soldier of the legion," 

That " lay dying in Algiers." 

I still can see, just as of old, 

The sights at Watkin's Glen, 
Though thirty years of wand'ring life 

Have passed and gone since then — 
Ah, can it be so long ago? 

How swift the years have sped, 
Since " in his dark, carved, oaken chair. 

Old Rudiger sat, dead ! " 

From that old bench I've wandered through 

" Sweet Auburn " many a time. 
And heard those far-off " Shandon Bells " 

Fling out their joyous chime; 
And oft Fve paused beside the spring 

To drink, then ride away, 
While sweet " Maud MuUer " mused and sighed 

Till rain fell on the hay. 
26 



Memory and Reflection 

These joys it gave — yet from that spot 

I've searched the wide world o'er_, 
For some secluded place on earth 

" Where mortals weep no more ; 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west, 
Where, free from toil and pain, 

The weary soul may rest." 

Aye, many a weary day since then. 

Through varying heat and frost, 
I've held my solitary way, 

" Lone, wandering, but not lost." 
For I still hold in memory 

The little school that stood 
Just where the roadway bends around 

A little patch of wood. 



ON THE SHORE 

I HAVE stood Upon the shore 

All the day, all the day, 
Where the sunny wavelets whisper. 

Laugh and play, laugh and play. 
27 



Memory and Reflection 

There, arrayed in all their glory, 
Each has told to each a story 
Of a day that I remember, 
Far away, far away. 

Now that each has told the other 
What to say, what to say. 

All in concert they come whisp'ring 
Down the bay, down the bay. 

Come from far along the sea. 

Whispering the tale to me, 

'Tis a tale that I remember 
Of a day far away. 

'Tis a story of a day 

Long gone by, long gone by, 
When deep-mirrored in the wave 

Lay the sky, lay the sky. 
When we walked upon the shore, 
I with one I know no more. 
One whom I so well remember, 

Passed away, passed away. 

She was fair, none ever fairer. 
Blue her eye, blue her eye, 
28 



Memory and Reflection 

Not a purer blue the mirror 

Of the sky, of the sky; 
'Tis of her the tale is told, 
Her I knew and loved of old, 
And the day I'll e'er remember, 

Flown away, flown away. 

Year by year the waves have rippled 

On the shore, on the shore — 
Day by day they've whispered to me 

O'er and o'er, o'er and o'er — 
Though the sun may fade and fail, 
Still I'll hear their whispered tale 
Of the lost one I remember, 
Far away, far away. 



THE DOWNTRODDEN 

In nine times out of ten 

When the whole " blamed world " 

Is walking over you, and men 

Sit down upon you, 'tis because you're curled 

Up in the highway; 'tis because you sleep 
Just where the wheels of time are wont to go, 
29 



Memory and Reflection 

Or if perchance you wake, you yawn and creep, 
As if you thought the world would stop and wait 
For you — just you. 

But be not thus deceived ; 

The world moves on and on the same, 
And you, although you're trodden down and grieved, 

Have in your stupor failed to place the blame ; 
'Tis on yourself^ not others. You must keep 

Awake if you would hope to get your due ; 
You can not lie, like some poor worm, asleep ; 

For time and opportunity won't wait 
For you — just you. 



WORTH 

What is a conqueror more 

Than he who has conquered been ? 
Though one be lauded o'er and o'er, 

The other scorned of men. 
Is there in the truer scale 
One whit between the two? 
In which class, then, 
Are the better men? 
In which of the two are you? 

30 



Memory and Reflection 

'Tis not material gain 

Nor show of outward part 
That Hfts mankind to a higher plane 

'Tis the worth of the secret heart ; 
And he with colors cased 
May truly surpass the one 
Whose colors fly 
In the evening sky 
So vauntingly in the sun. 

Belief that his cause is right, 

As God gives him to see, 
And zeal in the final fight 

The proof of the man should be — 
With this alone our guide, 

We pause o'er these mounds to say : 
" This one was true 
To the Northern blue. 
And this to the Southern gray." 



THE CHURCHYARD 

There's a little mound in the churchyard 
Where my sleeping darling lies. 

And round it howls the winter 
And o'er it gloom the skies; 

31 



Memory and Reflection 

And on it the snow is lying 

To muffle the wind's wild sound ; 

This is the home of my darling — 
This churchyard and this mound. 

'Twas autumn chill and gloomy 

When, sorrowing, came I here; 
The flowers of summer had faded, 

And earth was gray and sere. 
When here in my grief and sorrow, 

The hosts of summer flown, 
I brought the last faded blossom 

And silently laid it down. 

And here in this mound in the churchyard 

Are tears, ah, bitter tears; 
And here in the gloom is buried 

The sunshine of all my years — 
Though soon will the blossoms be smiling 

And the birds sing again in the tree. 
Yet spring can not bring back my floweret. 

Twill ever be autumn to me. 



32 



Memory and Reflection 



MAKE ME A MAN 

Hasten, O hasten, ye years on your way. 
Speed o'er yon chasm hke Ught o'er the day. 
Bear me along o'er the vague gulf that lies 
'Twixt these dull clouds and the blue of yon skies. 
Take me this hour from this dull, childish play, 
Let me view closer those hues far away. 
Waft me to-day o'er the gulf that ye span — 
Make me a man, O Years, make me a man ! 

Take me, O Years, adown time's rushing stream, 
Show mxC at morning the scenes of my dream. 
Let me but go, for my spirit elate 
Longs for life's honors and glories that wait; 
Leave me no more with this longing to see 
All the bright scenes that are promised to me. 
Bear me to-day o'er the chasm ye span — 
Make me a man, O Years, make me a man ! 

Fulfill the hopes that are dearest and best ; 
Quell the wild longings that burn in my breast. 
Let me but stand in the full, morning beam 
Of whose distant light I have caught the first gleam 

2,^ 



Memory and Reflection 

Let me look back from the height of my fame 
Over the dull, cheerless route whence I came, 
Give me the guerdon that ye only can — 
Make me a man, O Years, make me a man ! 



Nothing but fame can satiety bring. 

Naught hears the boy but the sirens that sing, 

Onward he climbs toward the summit — alas, 

He sees not the beauties that smile as they pass — 

Till weary and worn with his strivings he yearns 

For the days of his childhood again ; and he turns 

And looks through his tears as he only can 

To chide the swift years that have made him a man. 



THE SPELLING CLASS 

We toed the mark along the wall, 

A dozen lubbers there. 
Another dozen girls, and all 

Were buxom girls and fair — 
We toed the mark at ten to four. 

Our other classes done, 
Two dozen spellers, good and poor, 

And I was number one. 
34 



Memory and Reflection 

Along the line the quick words ran, 

Like hail-stones on a roof; 
From me clear down to Mary Ann 

Each speller stood as proof; 
And as the words rolled on with ease 

I peered back down the line, 
When lo, I saw Dave Andrews squeeze 

A hand I claimed as mine. 

Too much, too much ; it must not be — 

My thoughts ran hard and fast^ 
How could I get sweet Nell by me? 

Twas settled, but not passed. 
On went the words with hurried sound. 

Some three or maybe four, 
And then began the second round. 

My turn to spell once more. 

'Twas " parallel " broke on my ear, 

I scratched my head perplexed. 
Then spelled it wrong, when loud and clear 

The teacher echoed, '' Next." 
I held my breath — still on and on 

The word was quickly passed, 
The twelfth misspelled, the eighteenth gone, 

It stopped at Nell at last. 
35 



Memory and Reflection 

I strained my fearful eyes on her, 

I coughed and stamped the floor, 
Then like a storm-tossed mariner 

I circled round once more. 
I reeled and swayed — ah, is she blind ? 

I whispered, " Nell, O Nell," 
And stuck two fingers out behind, 

To show a double 1. 

She heard, she turned, she saw at last, 

A sudden calm swept o'er. 
She drew her breath in hard and fast, 

Then silence held the floor. 
She straightened from her musing mood; 

I heard her voice rise free, 
Another instant and she stood, 

Dear, sweet Nell Tyler stood by me. 



YOU CAN LAUGH ABOUT IT LATER 

You can laugh about it later, 
When the storm has drifted past, 

And the lookout sits a-smiling. 
Gazing calmly from the mast; 
36 



Memory and Reflection 

You can laugh about the danger 
That has turned the other way, 

When you sit within the sunshine 
Of a later summer day. 

You can laugh about the trouble 

That has one time caused you tears ; 
Half your former heartaches vanish, 

Looking backward through the years 
For the mountains seek the valleys 

Till a level landscape lies 
'Neath the gleaming, golden sunshine 

Of some future summer skies. 

You can laugh o'er disappointments 

Of the years of Fortune's frown, 
O'er the heavy griefs and failures 

That have often bowed you down ; 
For God's blessing is upon you — 

Time, life's healing balm, he gave 
For the wounds that may beset you 

'Twixt the cradle and the grave. 



37 



Memory and Reflection 



IF I HAD KNOWN 

If I had known when I vv^as young 

Just how my future years would be, 
If I had known what joy would come, 

Aye, and what grief to me, 
How different would have been my course 

From that which I have traveled on ; 
•How far from what I am I'd be. 

If I had known. 

If I had known when spring began 

The changes of the coming year. 
Its every sorrow, every joy, 

Its grief, its passing fear. 
How much of ill I might have spurned. " 

What joys were mine that now have flown ! 
The world had been a different place 

If I had known. 

If I had known — ah, foolish wish, 
To hope to know; the die is cast. 

To know is to relinquish hope, 

'Tis grief enough to know the past. 
38 



Memory and Reflection 

One can not arm himself 'gainst fate ; 

Despite his power the storm will on- 
Mine would have been a wretched life 

If I had known. 



GENIUS 

Genius is not born^ but made ! 

'Tis ambition makes the man. 
Drudgery is Genius' aid, 

Marching in the van. 

'Tis an error to believe 

That the great were always great, 
That the glory they achieve 

Was decreed by fate. 

Fate is but a phantom dim, 
Neither kind, nor yet unkind. 

And its smiles or visage grim, 
Products of the mind. 

Those who beckon from the height 
Trod the path o'er which we tread, 
39 



Memory and Reflection 

Trudging onward day and night, 
Ever straight ahead. 

Neither fate nor birth can give, 
Neither birth nor fate withhold, 

That for which men toil and live. 
Be it fame or gold. 

Have some weaker ones grown great? 

Are the lowly known to fame? 
It is drudgery, not fate, 

That has won the game. 

Genius is a slave grown gray. 
Just a common, earth-born man, 

Who has risen, day by day, 
Toiling in the van. 



THE JOURNEY. 

From earth to heaven there is no blind, 
Unconscious groping of the mind; 
The gleam, at first a fancied light. 
Which shines and fades by turns, grows bright 
40 



Memory and Reflection 

And brighter still, as day by day 
We travel down our destined way. 
What at the first is seen afar, 
The twinkle of a tiny star, 
Becomes a splendor deftly shed 
Along the path o'er which we tread. 
Until th' enkindled eye doth see 
The blaze of immortality. 

No voice is heard, yet from on high 

The whispers of eternity 

Come with our heart throbs, come and go, 

Like ripples on a river's flow. 

Inaudible at first, they seem 

Like sounds remembered in a dream. 

But later on, as time doth sweep 

Beyond the shoals toward the deep. 

They greet the ear^ a ceaseless roll 

Of music stirring in the soul, 

So faint and sweet, and yet so near, 

The spirit can not choose but hear. 

Though first benighted and unknown, 
We walk our journey not alone. 
Though seeming wand'rers day by day, 
Oft tempted from the chosen way, 
41 



Memory and Reflection 

An unseen hand still guides aright 
Our dubious pathway through the night — 
Through hours of sickness and of pain, 
Through days of sunshine and of rain, 
Through weeks of varying hopes and fears, 
Through changeful months of smiles and tears, 
And onward through the heavy years, 
From first to last, throughout life's span, 
Christ's Spirit walks the path with man. 



THE UPLIFT 

To have a goal beyond that of to-day, 

A spot toward which to go with constant pace, 

A something worthy luring on alway — 
This is the uplift of the human race. 

And be that goal a monarch's end and aim, 

A world ambition it's to satisfy. 
Or be it e'en a soldier's modest fame 

Which spurs him on to duty or to die, 

Or be it more, an immaterial fee, 

That which endures beyond the pale of time, 

42 



Memory and Reflection 

Riches laid up against eternity — 

Or be it but the humble goal of rhyme, 

Whate'er its worth, 'tis this that leads man on, 

From round to round still upward toward the height; 

It points the way forever toward the dawn 
And sets a star within the deep'ning night. 



HOPE 

Thou, Hope, man's staff, with thee, and thee alone, 
He sets his face toward the great Unknown. 
Not weary feet nor rough and dangerous way, 
Nor aught beside prevails on him to stay. 
Has he, in groping, missed the kindly light 
Set on the hill to guide his steps aright. 
Or has he wandered on into the shade 
By rocky dell or gloomy woodland made. 
Though these beset him, still sufficient guide 
Is there so long as thou art at his side. 
Ah, Hope, fond Hope, man's tried and truest friend, 
His guide through life, his haven at its end, 
On thee I lean secure where'er I be — 
God pity those who journey not with thee. 

43 



Memory and Reflection 



DEAR OLD SPICERVILLE 

How long 't 'as been since last I saw 

The dearest place to me, 
The cottage hard upon the street, 

The blooming lilac tree, 
The little rise of ground, the path 

That led up to the door. 
The dozen buildings squatting 'round, 

The blacksmith shop, the store, 
The orchard trees still farther down, 

The schoolhouse just beyond. 
The roaring dam, the foaming pool. 

Below the great mill-pond — 
How long 't 'as been since last I heard 

The chatter of the rill 
That sparkles 'neath the wooden bridge 

In dear old Spicerville! 

From place to place I've wandered far, 

A pilgrim plodding on; 
I've seen the queen of Nature's realm 

Sit proudly on her throne, 
Niagara, the rolling sea. 

The Rockies towering high, 
44 



Memory and Reflection 

The great, broad prairies stretching on 

To meet the bending sky. 
I, too, have stood in silent thought 

By Mississippi's flow 
And watched her mighty waters roll, 

Her traffic come and go. 
But what to me is majesty! 

Aye, worship it who will, 
But let me see the babbling brook 

That flows through Spicerville. 



The gray old structure called the mill, 

That stood beside the stream, 
I seem to see it there again 

And hear it in my dream ; 
The great wheel grinding out the grist 

Is whirling yet, I trow ; 
Above it buzzed the hungry saw. 

The apples rolled below — 
And there, how oft on bended knees. 

The youngsters of the town. 
With long straws sipped the cider up 

To let it trickle down! 
Again I hear the saw-mill's song, 

The tenor of the key, 
45 ■ 



Memory and Rejection 

So shrill, to try to mimic it 

Were all in vain for me — 
But now the gnarly oak starts in; 

Ah, such a change, so soon! 
The knotty log has choked the saw, 

The mill has lost its tune ; 
But I can hear the little brook 

Go chattering, chattering still, 
And I can see it rippling on 

Through dear old Spicerville. 



Ah, wheresoe'er I wander. 

Where'er I chance to be, 
A picture of this olden scene 

Still haunts my memory. 
The plains, the mountains, rivers, 

The cataracts, and seas — 
Thank God, the mighty Maker, who 

Adorned the earth with these; 
I've seen them all, aye, time and time; 

I've seen the works of men, 
The charms of art I too have felt 

Again and yet again; 
But take them all and be content; 

I ask but this for me, 
46 



Meynory and Reflection 

The little cot hard by the street, 

The blooming lilac tree, 
The dozen buildings rising 'round, 

The chatter of the rill 
That sparkles 'neath the wooden bridge 

In dear old Spicerville. 



REWARDED 

He fought the world a good and valiant fight, 
At flush of morn and at the hour of noon. 

And still when hovered o'er the shades of night 
He deemed the struggle ended all too soon. 

Full oft had grim misfortune borne him down, 
And piled upon him all her load of care ; 

Him disappointment chastened with a frown; 
He, too, had worn the signet of despair. 

But these, nay, none of these, had overthrown, 
Nor winter's cold nor hunger's ashen crust — 

Though fallen oft, with hope's kind aid alone, 
As oft he'd risen, victor, from the dust. 
47 



Memory and Reflection 

Yet, 'mid all this, no groan, no hopeless word 
Fell from his lips, nor from his eye a tear; 

If e'er a bitter thought within him stirred ^ 

'Twas smothered down by nobler words of cheer. 

And thus he fought 'gainst fate the valiant fight. 
At flush of dawn and at the hour of noon ; 

And e'en when hovered 'round the shades of night. 
He deemed the struggle ended all too soon. 

Nor will it be forgotten how that he 

Toiled through his threescore years ; Heav'n still 
is just, 
And he that proveth strong in constancy. 

Shall rise at last a victor from the dust. 



THANKSGIVING 

When chickens and turkeys are basted and brown. 
And th' ills of the season are wholly forgotten, 

When neat invitations have scattered the town 
'Mongst the people in silk and the people in cotton, 

What time of all times in the whole circling year 
Approaches in mirth this accustomed Thanksgiving? 

48 



Memory and Reflection 

And when does the mercy of God more appear 
Than when we are met for a day of thanksliving ? 

There is pleasure for all ; e'en the name has a charm ; 

Thrice welcome it comes to the sober old Nation. 
'Tis a dull^ chilly day, but the hearthfire glows warm, 

And Want quite forgets all her former privation. 
The prodigals come from the East and the West, 

The brothers, the sisters, the uncles and cousins, 
And all tumble into the quiet home nest 

With greetings and handshakes and kisses by dozens. 

There's goodwill toward all ; e'en the cynic is still ; 

But hark ! 'tis the old-fashioned grace they're repeating. 
'Tis over ; now. Mirth, take the floor as you will, 

The turkey is carved^ and we'll fall to the eating; 
'Twill call back such days from the years that are gone, 

'Twill bring up the scenes we shall always remember ; 
'Twill give us new pleasures to ponder upon — 

Thank God for this day in this dismal November! 



49 



Memory and Reflection 



SOMETIME 

" Sometime," aye, " sometime." Have you never heard 

Of the hopes, the joys, the fears it brings? 
Thought of all thoughts, and of all words the word — 

O^ what prophecy to this sound clings ! 
" Sometime " — 'tis the key to all our woe ; 

When or where the future years must say — 
" Sometime," O what joy we'll sometime know, 

When the present clouds have blown away! 

Sometime, when but a few more years are gone, 

Incessant labor will give place to ease, 
And grief, that follows grief so swiftly on, 

Will turn to joy that we may smile at these. 
Sometime our absent ones will turn toward home, 

And we with tears of joy will grasp the hand, 
Happy that they who left our roof to roam 

Will bless once more their home and native land. 

Yet, sometime, all we dread shall come to pass — 
Our fears — and who has none ? — will then prevail ; 

Our friends, the dearest, loveliest, alas, 
Will pass away, nor aught our tears avail. 

50 



Memory and Reflection 

Sometime we'll be alone, this gay life gone — 
The past a faded dream of love at most — 

Sometime when all the world moves gaily on, 

We'll dream the past, and weep for all that's lost. 

But even then, when life has darkest grown, 

When in the west the setting sun is low. 
When night comes on, and we are left alone. 

With naught to cheer of all we've loved below, 
Then will our comfort be that sometime we 

Shall pierce the gloom that hovers o'er the tide 
And turn our course across the silver sea, 

To meet them all upon the other side. 



SOMEWHERE 

Somewhere, when all is o'er, 

When time has passed into eternity. 

Those that I love, whom now I see no more, 
Will they not know, and, knowing, call to me, 

And shall we not again united be — 
Somewhere ? 

I would not think that this is all of life. 

To walk this checkered path, to sup with Pain, 
51 



Memory and Reflection 

To wage 'gainst sorrow an unequal strife ; 

I would not think that we have loved in vain, 
And parted, nevermore to meet again — 
Somewhere. 

Ah, no ; such fate, though man be lowly born, 
Were less than his desert ; 'twere harsh to be 

Of all the future hopes of heaven shorn. 

While haunted still by love's fond memory — 

Are not the lost ones waiting still for me — 
Somewhere ? 

I look away, and, listening thus, I hear 
A promise^ and in hearing, feel and know 

That those I've lost are lingering ever near; 
That what is hidden time will shortly show ; 

That I shall meet the loved of long ago — 
Somewhere. 



THAT DEAR LITTLE MITE OF A RIVER 

There's a scene I remember, an oft-chosen byway. 
Where the grass in mid-summer was wavy and long. 

And where, in its joy, was a bright little river 

That rippled and babbled and murmured its song — 

52 




AND THERE LEAPED THE TROUT THROUGH THE RAPIDS AND SHALLOWS 



Memory and Reflection 

A clear little, bright little mite of a river 

That sparkled and chattered and murmured along. 

And there on the high grassy bank was the beechwood, 

The far-reaching elm cast its shadow around ; 
Twas there^ too, the silver-leaved maple was growing, 

And the bright, fiery tassels of sumac were found — 
While on, through the patches of shade and of sunshine, 

In ripple and eddy still dancing away. 
That dear little, clear little mite of a river. 

Kept murm'ring and singing the whole summer day. 

And there, too^ the red-breasted robin was singing, 

The bluebird once swayed in the branches on high, 
As if undecided which charms to be seeking, 

The green of the earth or the blue of the sky — 
While still from the depth of the shadiest places. 

With ripple and song, never ceasing to run. 
That dear little^ bright little mite of a river. 

Whirled merrily into the light of the sun. 

And there leaped the trout through the rapids and shallows 
Mid-stream 'neath the dead, whitened bough of the 
tree. 
Where oft in his glory the bold feathered-fisher 
Swooped down for the prize 'twas intended for me, 

53 



Memory and Reflection 

While I, youthful angler, expectantly waited 
The impulse conveyed by the twinge of the line 

That hung in that clear little mite of a river, 

Whose bright finny treasure no more may be mine. 

E'en now the gay butterfly flits o'er the water. 

The wild bee returns to the sweet-scented flowers, 
The summer-born locust flings out of the treetops 

His shrill-whistled praise of the bright, sunny hours ; 
Even now I imagine the maple invites me 

To come back and lounge in the depth of the glen, 
That the dear little, clear little mite of a river 

Is calling me back to the meadow again. 

No more by the bend where the water is deepest 

I pile the few garments a boy needs must wear. 
No more may I plunge in the pure gurgling water 

To sport with its ripples, their coolness to share; 
For I'm far, far away from that green, grassy meadow, 

While time into years passes slowly along. 
But still in the distance that mite of a river 

Is calling me back with the voice of its song. 



54 



Memory and Reflection 



LIFE 

Life is like a river, so they say; 

Yes, it, like a river, runs away; 
Where 'tis shallowest it babbles most, 

Where 'tis weakest there's the loudest boast. 

All in all, how much alike they are, 
Lives and rivers ! Both of them at war, 

Both at variance with things that tend 
Toward abrupt or toward ignoble end. 

Lives are like to rivers, short and long, 
Silent lives and merry lives of song. 

Some in gloomy windings take their way. 
Some dance onward, never youth more gay. 

Some enthralled by a too narrow tide. 
Others move majestic, deep and wide. 

Yet must all — perhaps 'tis God's design — 
Run a checkered course of shade and shine. 

Life's a stream on which men, each and all, 
Soon or late plunge down the fatal fall ; 
55 



Memory and Reflection 

'Yond the marsh and past the wooded shore, 
We onward glide, and see them nevermore. 

The varied course through which we hourly tend, 
With all its shade and shine, must shortly end 

'Tis but a year, a month, perhaps a breath, 
We leap the great Niagara of death. 

Life is like a river, so they say, 

Yes, it, like a river, runs away — 
Rough and smooth, it finds at last the sea. 

Boundless ocean, called Eternity. 



LET US FORGET 

Let us forget — not those who long have stood 
The test of time in friendship's fair domain. 

Nor those in whom no selfish thoughts intrude 
To mar the luster of love's brilliant chain. 

Let us forget — not those whose smiles we've known. 
Who by a kindly word have smoothed the way 

When we were journeying o'er life's path alone, 
Dark night before, behind, the joyless day. 
56 



Memory and Reflection 

Let us forget — not childhood's golden spell, 
Its fond caresses, nor its soothing chime, 

Nor voices we have known and loved so well, 

Grown strange or silent with the sweep of time. . 

Let us forget the false, who turned away 

When kindly fortune had withdrawn her smile, 

Let us forget, from this far distant day. 

The cruel wound o'er which we grieved the while. 

Let us forget the thrust, the scornful frown^ 

The harsher words that careless tongues have hurled, 

And crush to-day all bitter memories down, 
Forget the slights and wrongs of all the world. 

Let us forget the sorrows that are gone, 

The heartaches we have known, the grief, the tears — 
Forget that v/e have ever groped alone. 

Or felt the blight which swept across our years — 

Let us forget all these that there may be 

Room in our hearts for nobler thoughts to rise — 

Let us forget all unkind words^ that we 
May feel the joy of sweeter memories. 



57 



Memory and Reflection 



PATIENCE 

Patience, thou first of virtues, I would fain 

Know more of thee ; extend thy friendship here — 

I have appealed to my rash self in vain. 

In vain ; for naught I've hoped for doth appear, 
And I would joy to feel that thou art near. 

I've heard thy voice at times, so calm, it seemed 
That I must do thy bidding; then again 

Mine own impulsive spirit said I'd dreamed, 
That thou couldst scarcely come to me again, 
And I believed, such is the faith of men. 

Yea, I believed, and in anxiety 

Sought to o'ercome whate'er should bar my way; 

In confidence I turned away from thee 
To fight a year-long battle in a day. 
And win 'gainst all that rose to say me nay. 

And I have failed — thy spirit was not mine ; 
My fiercest onsets bode me naught but ill — 

Aye, take my hand and make my purpose thine. 
That my lost hopes the future may fulfill — 
Who has thine aid may have whate'er he will. 
58 



Memory and Reflection 



TWUZ APRIL 

'Twuz April, thirty years ago, 

The tenth, ef I remember, 
But jest ez cold ez ever wuz 

The tenth day o' December, 
When, spite o' caps, an' spite o' felts, 

An' overcoats to kiver, 
Us kids at school broke camp, an' all 

Went hiking to the river. 

We bolted down to Bailey's bend, 

All goin' in fer beatin', 
Off with our caps and coats and felts 

An' other things fer heatin'. 
An' piled 'em all up on the bank, 

An', spite o' twist an' shiver, 
Ker-choog, ker-choog, ker-choog," we up 

An' div into thet river. 

Whew ! Wa'nt thet fun ! You bet yer boots 

The river wuz a brimmin'. 
An' duckin' 'twixt the blocks o' ice 

We all begun a swimmin. 

59 



Memory and Rejection 

Fer several minutes, more or less, 

We kept right on a goin', 
Till some one yelled frum off the bank, 

*' What a-i-r you fellers doin' ! " 

With fear an' tremblin' out we bounced. 

Some thirty seconds later, 
Each lookin' jes e'zakly like 

His ma's horseradish grater — 
Gee, Crackey! but 'twuz beastly cold, 

Our symptoms, grew alarmin', 
But teacher stood thar on the bank 

An' guv us all a warmin'. 



TO A HUMAN SKELETON 

ON SEEING THE BONES PILED INTO A BOX 

Ye mass of cold gray bones that moulder here. 

Dumb, lifeless things that know nor heed me not, 
Here have ye bleached and crumbled many a year, 

Full many a year thy name has been forgot. 
Thou art unknown, unclaimed — yet who can say 

His heart e'er beat with love more true than thine? 
Or who can gaze on thee and turn away 

Without some pitying thought, some thought like mine ? 

60 



Memory and Reflection 

Those shadowy crypts that stare at me so cold, 

I look into their depth in vain to find 
Some semblance of the light, the love of old ; 

I find it not — alas, those cells are blind. 
And yet I know, sometime in years agone, 

A loving mother found her solace there 
In laughing eyes whose light, soft as the dawn, 

Reflected love into her own as fair. 

Thou wast a boy one time, a happy boy, 

In all thy childish innocence and glee. 
The fields, the woods^ the streams were all thy joy, 

And all the flowers of spring-time bloomed for thee. 
For thee the summer birds sang sweet and low. 

For thee the autumn foliage turned to gold — 
Ah, lifeless mass, who is there now to know 

What passions, what delights were thine of old ? 

Perchance some fond ambition filled thy breast. 

Some dreams of eminence before thee rose 
To lead thee on, yet ne'er to be possessed ; 

The bursting bud didst ne'er the flower disclose — 
Perchance gay Pleasure cast her mantle o'er, 

As o'er the trunk the ivy doth entwine — 
Ah, voiceless stone, asleep for evermore. 

What hope, what fear, what joy, what pain was thine? 

6i 



Memory and Reflection 

Thou canst not answer ; therefore who can say 

What mighty love abode within thy heart, 
What eyes shed tears above thy Hfeless clay, 

That death should tear those tender ties apart? 
Thou canst not hear me, and I ask thee not, 

Nor read mine answer in thy sightless eye; 
T only know, whate'er may be man's lot. 

None are too good and none too bad to die. 



HOME REVISITED 

Ye countless stars that deck the midnight skies. 
Unchanged ye hang within your distant sphere 

Still as of old ye turn your million eyes. 
And smile once more upon the wand'rer here. 

I knew ye then ; to-night I know ye still ; 

The milky-way ye illumine is the same. 
The same bright orb that hung o'er yonder hill 

Hangs there to-night its far but constant flame. 

The golden moon that soared the heavens then, 
To shed around her soft and misty light, 

Mounts slowly o'er the shadowy world again. 
To set her seal upon this later night. 

62 



Memory and Reflection 

The firmament retains its old-time hue — 

From north to south, where'er my eye doth range, 

I see once more the placid ocean blue, 

With all its gems — in Heaven there is no change. 

Not so in earth — I walk a stranger here. 

Scarce know the spot that once was dear to me, 

The hand of Time has traced from year to year 
His measured scroll upon eternity — 

And Change and Ruin masters are supreme — 
The little home I knew of yore is gone ; 

Lost years have changed it all into a dream^, 
That dimmer grows as time rolls on and on. 

The river banks are leveled to the sea. 
The very hill I trod slopes to the plain ; 

There's little left of old to welcome me, 
I look for olden scenes and friends in vain. 

They are no more. The heavens alone declare 
'Gainst time a pure, unchanging realm of light — 

Ye countless stars that smile upon me here. 
Ye welcome me, my only friends, to-night. 



63 



Memory and Reflection 



A SONG OF WINTER 

There is happiness in winter that the summer can not 

bring ; 
There is music in the winter — " Ting-el, ing-el, ing-el, 

ing. 
You can watch the rosy faces of the children going by, 
Till you catch the mirth infection from the laughter in 

each eye. 

You can see the stars a-twinkle as at night you glide along. 
And the screeching of the runners is the music of a 

song, 
The song your heart would utter to the sweet and flowing 

chime 
Of the " Ting-el, ing-el, ing-el " of the bells in winter 

time.. 

There is happiness in winter — in despite of snow and 

cold, 
There's a joy that comes from heaven^ as the manna came 

of old. 
There's a hearth-fire brightly gleaming till your heart is 

all aglow 
With the memories of childhood in the winters long ago, 

64 



Memory and Reflection 

When yon coasted down the hillside in a rapturous de- 
light, 

While the stars were all a-t winkle, shining through the 
frosty night, 

And your heart caught up the music, echoed in a flowing 
chime, 

With the " Ting-el, ing-el, ing-el " of the bells in winter 
time. 



FLOWN AWAY. 

I've been thinking of the things 

That have wings — 
Of the swarm of tiny gnats 
Flitting 'round our ears in June, 
With their roll of sharps and flats 

In a tune. 
Of the condor circling high 
In the clear Andean-sky 

Till the snow 
Of the heaven-ascending height 
Lies a tiny speck of white 

Far below. 

65 



Memory and Reflection 

I've been thinking of the things 

That have wings — 
Of the humming-bird that flew, 
Through the happy summer-day, 
To the dainty flowers that grew 

By the way. 
Of the homeward-flying bee, 
Of the robin in the tree, 

Perched to sing — 
Perched among the blossoms white, 
In the early morning light, 

There to swing. 



I've been thinking of the things 

That have wings — 
Of the sunny days of yore. 
In the seasons that are gone, 
And I call them back once more, 

One by one; 
But each momentary joy 
That sustained the careless boy 

Is, at last, 
A momentary pain, 
And I look and long in vain 

For the past. 
66 



Memory and Reflection 

Still I'm thinking of the things 

That have wings — 
Of ambitions that have flown, 
Like the birds from winter's snow, 
Of the hopes I made my own, 

Long ago. 
Ere the future, fair and bright, 
Had become a cloudy night 

Well-nigh o'er ; 
Ere the best of life had gone. 
Ere, as now, I stood alone 

On the shore. 



WHAT WOULD YOU DO? 

Were there no footprints left upon the floor, 
No marks of little feet that patter through, 
With careless step, the slyly-opened door — 
Feet laden and besmeared with dust and dew 
Should these return no more to trouble you, 
The restless little child all restful grown. 
If there were left you but an empty shoe — 
And you alone — 
What would you do? 



Memory and Reflection 

Were there no childish griefs to soothe away, 

No teasing^ no incessant shouts of glee, 
No littered rooms, no boist'rous, noisy play 
To try your nerves and vex you constantly. 
If these should be removed, and you should be 
Enthralled in solitude — those voices gone, 
The echo lapsed into Eternity, 
And you alone — 
What would you do? 

Were there no more of ever watchful cares^ 
No more anxieties or thoughts that speak 

Of subtle dangers lurking unawares 

Around these fledglings, innocent and weak, 

If these were gone, and you once more should seek 

Respite from toil and worry, and should feel 

No chubby hand pressed warm against your cheek. 

Or find no sleeping babe by whom to kneel — 
What would you do? 



68 



Memory and Reflection 



THE EVERLASTING PROCESS 

The everlasting process, that's the one 
That leads to victory. Relentless toil 
Will bring rich verdure to a barren soil, 

And end in glory what grief has begun. 

See yonder dune that lifts its head on high, 
Its brow encircled with a tuft of trees, 
A thousand years the constant western breeze 

Has piled this dome into the azure sky. 

This sheltering cove, where storm-tossed vessels ride. 
Is not the work of one short summer day ; 
Ten thousand years the waters in their play 

Have scooped it from the rugged mountain-side. 

And listen! In yon cataract's hoarse roar. 
While thund'ring down its rocky depth below, 
Speak out a million years of ceaseless flow, 

And surge and dash its rocky pathway o'er. 

So let not man without due care and toil 
Hope to accomplish aught deserving praise ; 
Success is counted not in hours and days, 

But by long years of hard, incessant moil. 
69 



Memory and Reflection 



AULD BRIG OF AYR 

Spare the '' aiild brig," ye Scottish men, 

Look kindly on its arches there, 
Ere 'tis too late^ ah, pause again, 

Wreck not the good " auld brig of Ayr." 

What centuries on its arches hang; 

And yet through all how well 't has stood ! 
Forbear to do a *' kennen wrang " — 

The " auld brig " has defied the flood. 

Defied the power o' wintry blast, 
Stood like the hills the test of time. 

And shall it fall by man at last? 

Ah man, how prone to ruthless crime ! 

Spare the '' auld brig." " Ye dinna ken " 
What memories cling around each stone, 

How dear 't has grown to Scottish men, 
How far around the world 'tis known. 

Ye little know with what concern 

The world awaits your threatened deed — 
70 



Memory and Reflection 

Spare the " auld brig," that you may earn 
The honor few in Scotia need. 

Despise the heather if ye must; 

Up-tear the thistle from its bed, 
Betray a patriot's sacred trust, 

Turn traitor e'en where " Wallace bled." 

Aye, do all this, yet have a care. 

Your highest honor 's still at stake — 

Pause ere ye reach the *' banks o' Ayr," 
And spare the " brig " for Burns's sake. 



IT IS WELL 

Away, and still ever away. 

We look from the cares of to-day — 
Perhaps in the course of to-morrow. 

Or a week or a month or a year. 
Will depart the last dim trace of sorrow 

That shadows us here. 

To-day is the view-point. To-day 
We look to the future away, 
71 



Memory and Reflection 

Through the clouds, it may be, 

That hang darkly o'er us. 
Out into the great world, the sea 

Of sunshine before us. 

And 'tis well, it is well that our eyes 

Can pierce through the gloom of the skies 

It is well that the vision is given 
To lead from the cares of the day, 

And offer, as 'twere, a foresight of Heaven 
To brighten the way. 



JOHN HAY 

Living no more, and yet to live for ages, 
Departed hence, we see thy form no more. 

Yet 'tis thy hand still writes on hist'ry's pages 
Thine honored name that men may read it o'er. 

They wait in vain, the friends who stay to meet thee ; 

Thou canst not come before they shall depart. 
Yet through long years they may not cease to greet thee 

Thou livest still within the secret heart. 

72 



Memory and Reflection 

But not alone with them who've known thy greeting, 
Whose pleasure 'twas to grasp thy friendly hand, 

Nay, not with these alone art thou still meeting — 
Thou liv'st in every home throughout the land. 



GOOD OLD DAYS 

O, GIVE me back the good old days 
When all the world was mine; 

My palace home, the rude log hut, 
Half hidden 'neath the pine. 

le^ me scent the woodbine sweet 
Tha:L clustered 'round the eaves. 

And, dropping, hid the moss-grown logs 
Beneath its thousand leaves. 

How gladly would I turn my back 

Upon the setting sun. 
To view those well-remembered joys 

Of all the years agone. 

1 fain would trace my journey back 
To greet the rising morn, 

E'en from the rude, old cottage, 
Now empty and forlorn. 
7Z 



Memory and Reflection 

What are the joys of hoarded wealth? 

Vain, transitory, vain — 
O give me back the golden age 

Of boyhood's time again ! 
The wondrous forest and the fields 

Where I was wont to be. 
And let the summer flowers bud 

And bloom again for me. 

The dear ones long departed, 

O bring them back once more, 
And let me hear my mother's song 

Sound from the cottage door. 
And let my sister come again 

To play beneath the pine — 
O give me back the good old days 

When all the world was mine ! 



IN BOYHOOD 

Though many years are gone, Jim, since you and I were 

boys, 
Though many sorrows linger darkly over childhood joys, 
Though the bending shadows thicken hour by hour and 

day by day 

74 



Memory and Reflection 

To obscure the happy sunshine gleaming faintly far away, 
Yet I have not quite forgotten, may I never quite forget, 
The pleasures of our childhood in the turmoil of regret. 

I walked the ground a week ago, and saw the home once 
more. 

So much and yet so little of the home we knew of yore ! 

The house has fallen long ago, the yard and passing street 

Are covered o'er with oak and pine, a wilderness 's com- 
plete 

As when our father's ax first swung and hollow rang its 
sound, 

While we were happy piling brush he scattered on the 
ground. 

'Twas then our house first 'rose to view ; I see it as before ; 
Perhaps its size was ten by twelve, but very little more — 
E'en now I see the rude old stair up which we climbed to 

bed, 
And almost feel the careless joy descending on my head, 
The joy I felt when as a boy I closed my weary eyes. 
And waited for the morning with its bright and smiling 

skies. 

No matter that the chamber had no window in its side, 
For what is glass in all its hues ? A medium of pride. 

75 



Memory and Reflection 

We hailed the dusty sunHght where the worms had eaten 

through 
The pine boards of the gable, and we heard the robins, 

too — 
But why should I recall the scenes, or ask you if you know 
The places where we lived and played so many years ago ! 

We had a teeter on the gate, a see-saw, what you will — 
And uppermost how oft I've looked beyond the sloping 

hill ! 
For father came that way from town at night with heavy 

load ; 
I fancy I can see him now plod weary down the road. 
The apples that he always brought, red, and O, so sweet ! 
How long we'd smell the luscious fruit, too good it seemed 

to eat! 
But when at last temptation could no longer be repelled. 
Reluctantly we'd bite the fruit which we an hour had 

smelled. 

And if perchance 'twere winter time, and darkness came 

too soon. 
And loudly howled the wind outside, and palely shone 

the moon. 
How patiently we'd sit us down and watch our mother 

sew, 

7^ 



Memory and Reflection 

And wait our father's coming through the darkness and 

the snow ! 
How sweetly sang the teapot as the hearth-fire brighter 

grew ! 
But why should memory seek the old, and put aside the 

new? 
It is because my mind's oppressed, and ever ill at ease, 
Save when I call our boyhood back in simple scenes like 

these. 

For then we lived, and joy was ours that comes not on 
with age — 

Too sweet and fond is life of boy for after-written page ; 

Then had our mother's poorest song more music in its tone 

Than years of fond devotion to music could have shown. 

Not the grand cathedral organ of Saint Mark such notes 
has given, 

Nor none that raised its devotees so nearly into Heaven. 

Not " Bells of Shandon " trembling on the solemn evening 
air. 

With the bell that used to ring for us, in rapture can com- 
pare. 

And what dear faces on the earth are greeted with such 

joy 

As were those bright ones at the school when I was just 
a boy? 

77 



Memory and Reflection 

The crystal lake between the hills, where oft we went to 

swim, 
The picnic ground along the shore — do you remember, 

Jim, 
What charms those places had for boys, and how we 

used to go 
To wade and splash an hour or two when mother didn't 

know? 
Methinks our heel-marks in the bank have scarcely washed 

away. 
For since I've thought it o'er the more it seemeth but a 

day. 
Ah, no — another train of thought on things that inter- 
vene. 
Teach me too true that many years have come and gone 

between. 

i 

Full twenty summers has the sod been matting over him 
For whom we waited at the gate when twilight settled 

dim; 
Full twenty winters' snows have lain untrampled at the 

door ; 
Full twenty years the waves have washed our footprints 

from the shore. 
But why should I recall to-day the things that make us 

sad, 

78 



Memory and Reflection 

Of father and of mother in the happy times we had ? 
It is because behind it all there spring's life's dearest joy — 
And who would quite forget the days when he was just 
a boy? 



GRATITUDE 

Remember thou art not 

The chooser of thy destiny; 
If common or uncommon lot 

Shall fall to thee, 
Turn thou thy hand to make 

The best of it, for this 'twas given ; 
Whate'er it be, prepare thy heart to take 

All uncomplainingly the gift of Heaven. 

What troubles come^ receive, 

Nor broken with thy load of sorrow, fall ; 
Mourn not thy loss, and with affliction grieve. 

But lift thine eyes for strength to bear it all. 
Bear thou the part assigned, 

Nor in thy desolation question why 
Is earth so dark and Heaven so unkind, 

Lest thine own lips may make a false reply. 



79 



Memory and Reflection 



UPWARD 

Press onward, ever strive and climb, 

Mount upward toward the top ; 
While there is still a goal beyond 

Be not content to stop. 
Though you have won a worthy place. 

Let it not be the last — 
True greatness can not pause upon 

The glory of the past. 

For every man the future holds 

Some worthy gift in store — 
Press on, nor pause mid-journey now 

To count your troubles o'er. 
The part you've done of tasks assigned, 

Though be it great or small, 
'Twill take your whole allotted time 

To do and finish all. 



WAIT TILL THE TIDE COMES IN 

All shores are fair when the tide is full, 
And all are bare when the tide is low — 

Yea, so it is, and life is dull 

Or quick as its currents ebb or flow. 
80 



Memory and Rejection 

So be not too much giv'n to joy, 
When the tide of Hfe is dancing high, 

But still beware the guard's "Ahoy ! " 
Though sailing under an azure sky — 

And yet, be not too much oppressed, 

When stranded up where the shoals begin; 

There's still a chance for another quest — 
Just watch and wait till the tide comes in. 



EATON COUNTY, MICH. 

In thinking over places known 

That have been home to me, 
And counting up the pros and cons 

And neutrals, carefully, 
I've just about concluded. 

If you take it all-in-all, — 
The apple blossoms in the spring. 

The apples in the fall. 
The river with its hunting-ground, 

The woods-lake with its fish, — 
That 'bout the foremost place of all 

Is Eaton County, 
Mich. 

8x 



Memory and Reflection 

The long hills where in winter 

The youngsters meet to slide, 
The corn fields where in autumn 

The watermelons hide ; 
The maples by the roadway, 

And back of them the pool, 
That tempts the languid urchin 

From the routine of the school ; 
All these come up before me, 

And with 'em comes a wish 
To see some boys and — girls I knew 

In Eaton County, 
Mich. 

Let others boast of far-off climes. 

And beauty spots that please. 
The Alpine mountains capped with snow. 

And other scenes like these; 
Let Frenchmen sip their sparkling wine. 

The product of their hills, 
And torrid-zoners munch their fruits. 

And scorn our northern ills — 
Ay, let them dine on what they will. 

But when you stew my dish. 
Just savor it with something grown 

In Eaton County, 
Mich. 

82 



Memory and Reflection 



NOT IN VAIN 

To move the mind to nobler thought, 

To move the eyes to tears 
In pity for a fellow-man, 

To lift the weight of years 
From off the hoary, wrinkled brow. 

Where Sorrow's trace has been — 
Such power is given to but few, 

Such mission 's nothing mean. 

Or e'en to cause some heart to be 

Less drear for one short day. 
To add one rose unto the thorns 

That grow beside the way. 
To give to Woe one sound of mirth, 

To Joy one sweet refrain. 
Who does e'en nothing more than this 

Has scarcely lived in vain. 



WAIT 

Why fashion grief, or wherefore run to meet 
What, of all things, you would not like to greet, 
Grim-visaged sorrow? If he will advance, 
83 



Memory and Reflection 

Why, let him come, but view his form askance. 
Turn from his frown, and leave him if you may, 
But go not forth to meet him on the way. 

Why should you worry o'er life's rugged road, 
And conjure woe to add unto your load? 
It is enough to bear what fate shall send 
Without those griefs which dark forebodings lend. 
You fear the storm, why rush beneath the cloud, 
Or court the grave by putting on the shroud? 

Ah, do it not. Whate'er shall come to you 

Take with what grace kind Heav'n may help you to. 

Wait calmly and resignedly the flight 

Of life's approaching shadows and grim night; 

Sink not in gloom, but ever upward climb. 

And wait^ not seek, the ravages of time. 



"AULD AYR" 

AuLD Ayr, auld Ayr, tho' far awa', 
Methinks I ken your movements a', 
Methinks I stand upon your side, 
With just a bit o' Scottish pride, 
84 



Memory and Reflection 

To hear your current laughingly 
Flow onward, onward toward the sea. 

I seem to ken the towns ye greet, 
The barren woodlands that ye meet, 
The kirks reflected from your breast 
Where most your waters pause to rest, 
The bordering hills whose shadows lave 
Their mirrored outline in your wave. 

Auld Ayr, I ken ye well, I trow — 
Ken a' your looks, your changing flow. 
Your foam-flecked tide, your reedy shore. 
Your murm'ring song, your deeper roar — 
From mony a point I've watched ye run. 
At flush o' dawn and set o' sun. 

E'en now I hear the notes ye play, 
To cheer ye on your winding way 
Along the vale and past the heath. 
Or on, the crumbling "brig" beneath; 
In truth, auld Ayr, I've measured ye 
From Glenbuck down to Rathenkey. 

I see the auld moon rising, glowr 
In a' her pride your bosom o'er, 
85 



Memory and Reflection 

Ye've hauled them down, the stars aloof, 
An' made your floor of Heaven's roof — 
Auld Ayr, auld Ayr, tho' far awa'. 
Through Burns I ken your movements a'. 



ENJOYMENT 

I LIKE the things that other folk enjoy — 

I like to be as happy as I can; 
I like to think of how, when just a boy, 

My greatest wish was just to be a man. 

I like to see the old home in my dreams. 

And all the folk that used to gather there; 

I like to know how very good it seems 
To be, as then, apart from ev'ry care. 

I like to see the orchard trees in bloom; 

To smell their fragrant odor while the day 
Comes creeping, softly creeping to my room 

With all the pleasures born of smiling May. 

I like to hear, in fancy though it be, 

The household songs that used to greet my .ear ; 
86 



Memory and Reflection 

I like to think that in Eternity 

They're sounding still, if I could only hear. 

I like to think, though years have come and gone, 
Though flaxen polls have turned to silver gray, 

Of youthful hearts I used to dote upon. 

Though time and change have led them far away. 

I like to feel that I'm remembered, too^ 
To know, thereby, that life is not in vain ; 

In truth, I like what other people do, 

To live my childhood hours all o'er again. 



CHRISTMAS REFLECTIONS 

Full nineteen hundred years have rolled away 
Since that Judean village, Bethlehem, 

Wrapt in a double darkness, caught the ray 
Of kindly Heav'n's prophetic diadem — 

Full nineteen hundred years of changeful sway 

The earth hath witnessed since that midnight sky, 

Lit up with all the splendors of the day. 
Revealed to man the joyous host on high 
Singing the song that never more shall die. 
87 



Memory and Reflection 

Glory to God, and peace upon the earth," 

Judea's hills have echoed down through time. 

Until the anthem of the Saviour's birth 
Reverberates in ev'ry land and clime — 

A billion voices raise the holy chime 

Which, born in Heaven, was given man to sing; 

And ev'ry heart, pulsating, is a mine. 
Feeling the joy the angels felt to bring, 
The coronation hymn of Heaven's King. 

Full nineteen hundred years — and still the light 
That shone o'er Bethlehem, from Bethlehem's star, 

Shines on to guide humanity aright. 
Who seek the holy Saviour from afar — 

Whoe'er they be or wheresoe'er they are. 
This kindly beam doth ever lead the way. 

From humble cot or monarch's gilded car. 
Who follow this shall never go astray. 
But walk into the light of perfect day. 

If we to-night — these many years gone by — 
But listen to the spirits hov'ring near, 

The anthem of the seraphim on high. 

As joyous now as then, will greet the ear ; 

Nor shall we pale with fright nor kneel in fear — 
Those voices, sent from Heaven's joyous throng. 



Memory and Reflection 

But teach us what to Christ was ever dear, 
The peace and joy and comfort that belong 
To those who hear high Heaven's eternal song. 



LIFE AT BEST 

How near is Heav'n about us drawn, 
The hand of God, how near ? 

We rise to thoughts of nobler things 
By what surrounds us here. 

Th' immortal fires that shine on high 
Have touched the earth below, 

And gleam in many an ardent eye. 
From souls as pure, I trow. 

They shine in all their blessed light 
Into the heart's deep mine. 

To set the caverns of the night 
With jewels from love's shrine. 

Year after year they shine for me ; 

Oh, lovelight of my day, 
What gloom is oft dispersed by thee, 

What shadows chased away. 
89 



Memory and Reflection 

And I, ah, let me be in turn 

What others are to me. 
That I may teach as well as learn, 

What life at best should be. 



O TELL ME, MY LOVE 

O TELL me, my love, as we sit here to-night. 
Thy sweet face aglow in the sun's fading light, 
When Time shall have sprinkled his snow in thy hair, 
And left but a trace of the rich auburn there. 
When thy full, rosy cheek shall have withered away 
Like a sweet garden flower at the close of the day, 
When the red of thy lips shall have faded and flown, 
And a palor o'erspreads them, a hue not their own, 
O tell me, my love, shall I not, kissing thee. 
Still find thee the truest and dearest to me? 

O tell me, my love, when the long years shall trace 
Their furrows of care o'er that sweet, girlish face. 
When that soft, dimpled hand that caressed me to-day 
Shall grow palsied with age in the years far away, 
When that form has grown old that to-day is so fair. 
And the smile I now know is o'erclouded with care, 

90 



Memory and Reflection 

When the years all thy sweet, youthful beauties enfold, 
Shall I seek then in vain for some semblance of old ; 
O tell me, my love, as we sit here alone, 
Wilt thou not, e'en at that distant time, be mine own ? 

Though the years may play havoc with beauty and 

grace. 
And care trace its lines o'er that sweet, girlish face ; 
Though thy rich, waving tresses, all golden to-night, 
Shall turn, 'neath the snows of long winters, to white ; 
Though the eyes that now shine in mine own shall grow 

dim. 
And thy cheeks lose their bloom in the long interim ; 
Though all else shall change, yet there shall not depart 
One whit of the sweet, tender love from thy heart — 
Ah, no^ dearest love, by that sign thou shalt be 
To-night and forever the dearest to me. 



WHICH HAS WON? 

Fourscore years, and all is over 
Millionaire and pauper rover, 
Statesman honored by a nation. 
Convict shunned by all creation, 
91 



Memory and Reflection 

Wisest sage and simpleton, 
All are dead, and which has won? 
Which has won? 

Can the first, the proud and cold. 
Buy eternity with gold? 
Will the mighty Keeper listen 
If he sees the jewels glisten? 
Can a human pomp replace 
Virtue born of Christian grace? 
Has he won? 

Can the second beg his way 
Onward, upward — can he say. 
Give," and have a guerdon given. 
May he have a place in heaven? 
Can he beg an angel's share 
Of the riches laid up there? 
Has he won? 

Or the statesman's subtle voice — 
Can it win a seraph's choice? 
Can his worldly honors show 
What the other world would know ? 
Shall he feel that all is well, 
Shall he hear it — who can tell ? 
Has he won? 

92 



Memory and Reflection 

Must the convict's blotted name 
Quite erase his feeble claim? 
Shunned by man on earth, shall he 
By the angels slighted be ? 
Who of all can truly say 
That he shall be turned away? 
Has he won? 

Aye, which of them all is best, 
Which of them has heaven blessed? 
Statesman honored by a nation, 
Convict shunned by all creation, 
Pauper, sage, and simpleton. 
All are dead, and which has won? 
Which has won? 



SPRING 

Hail, Spring, old companion and friend 

Ha, ha, but isn't it fine 
That winter at last has come to an end ! - 

Hail, dear old companion o' mine! 

The sparrow is under the eaves. 
He's chirping, chirping away, 

93 



Memory and Reflection 

And the robin is up in the leaves 
Moulding his castle of clay. 

The breezes spring up from the south, 
And the river is sweeping along, 

The earth has returned to its youth 
And is humming an old love song; 

And now with a listening ear 
The crocus has lifted its head. 

While the arbutus, blushing to hear, 
Half turns in her leaf-covered bed. 

Earth's mantle is green as can be, 
While the sky bends above it so blue, 

In fancy one almost can see 

The steeples of Heaven shine through. 

Thus Heaven and earth are as one — 
'Tis the season when nature is glad, 

When birds sing and bright waters run. 
And never a creature is sad. 

Hail, Spring, dear companion and friend 

Ha, ha, but isn't it fine 
That winter at last has come to an end ! ■ 

Hail, dear old companion o' mine! 
94 



Memory and Reflection 



PLUCK 

Full seventy times the sun arose 
And seventy times went down 

Between the shore 

Of Salvador 
And famous Palos town — 

Full seventy times with longing eyes 
The western sea was scanned, 

Nor water line, 

Nor bird nor sign. 
Proclaimed the looked-for land. 

Yet Hope cried, '' Westward ! Westward ! 
And westward still they bore, 

By night and day, 

Away, away. 
Still onward as before. 

Fierce storm-clouds frowned upon them. 
The ocean waves dashed high. 
Yet through it all 
Hope dared to call, 
" Onward, brave heart, or die ! " 

95 



Memory and Reflection 

Thus day by day they drifted, 
And ere the storm had passed 

The restless sea 

In savage glee 
Rolled half-way up the mast. 

Still onward, onward, onward. 
Till ten long weeks had gone, 

When lo, the shore 

Of Salvador 
Rose from the sea at dawn. 



Now you, in your endeavor, 
'Gainst what have you to fight? 
What storms by day 
Have crossed your way — 
What threat'ning clouds by night? 

And is your course still westward ? 
Ah, pledge your word once more 

That you will brave 

Both storm and wave 
'Twixt you and Salvador. 



Memory and Reflection 



DISAPPOINTMENT 

I AM weary, grown weary with striving, 

Like a ship 'gainst a merciless gale 
That is driving it ever to leeward 

And strewing the waste with its sail — 
I am weary with battling to suffer 

The sting of defeat o'er and o'er, 
Like the rush of the wind 'gainst the mountain 

Or the surge of the sea 'gainst the shore. 

Little, nay, nothing's accomplished ; 

Ever the loser am I — 
The goal that for years I have striven 

Is a dim, distant star in the sky. 
How oft have I wearied with striving, 

Yet never deserted the way, 
While still through the gloom of my failure 

Some far, feeble hope lent its ray. 

But on with a new resolution, 

To all the world's beckonings blind, 

Pursued I the course of my journey; 
How enchanting, and yet how unkind ! 
97 



Memory and Reflection 

Hope, O Ambition, Misfortune, 
How closely related are ye ! 

How enticing at first, but how cruel. 
Fell siren on life's flowing sea! 

1 heard ye, I saw ye, and followed; 
How joyful I followed ye on! 

Hope, O thou alluring Ambition, 
Ye wizards, how now are ye gone, 

That I, after years of devotion. 

Should hear ye and know ye no more ! 

Ye are fickle and false and unstable, 

Like the white, shifting sands of the shore. 

1 am weary with striving against thee. 
Misfortune. So oft beaten back. 

What heart have I now for the battle, 
What hope in pursuing my track? 

With little, nay, nothing, accomplished, 
Ever the loser am I ; 

The hope that once lured me so brightly 
Glimmers faint in the far distant sky. 



Alexander 



ALEXANDER 

Young Alexander rode Bucephalus, 

The famous horse that jockeys couldn't ride, 
And governed Macedon without much fuss. 

And got some other fishes fairly fried; 
But there were bones to pick from day to day. 

And scraps to add a little to the Greece, 
For trying times were those, as one might say, 

Compared with days of luxury like these. 

Then Alex was a very busy king, 

And often, though not very often said, 
Not thinking he v/ould think about something, 

And send his hat and boots away to bed, 
While he himself would lop dovv'n for the night, 

For folk to stumble over in the dark, 
And sleep and snore unconsciously, in spite 

Of neighbors' cats and shaggy watchdog's bark. 

But Philip died, and who should fill up then 
The vacuum that such a king must leave. 

When men were gods and kings were ten times men, 
'Twas more than mortal gods could well conceive. 

99 



Alexander 

But Alexander being Philip's son, 

And filial sought to affiliate 
The future with the things already done — 

He'd got a new idea in his pate. 
So up he came on his wild filly; though 

Bucephalus then meant " without a head," 
His rider never meant to have it so 

Though Philip filled up what's allowed the dead. 



So Alexander settled on the throne, 

Which was for him no little bit too small — 
Said he, *'A meager thing like this to own! 

" 'Twere better far to have no throne at all." 
And then he set himself to work at once — 

Of course you know what that means — piece by piece 
He carried off each throne and stabbed each dunce. 

Till not a grease spot, rather, spot in Greece, 
Remained by this same Alex uncontrolled ; 

His views were much the same as Morgan's are^ . 
To be the only ram about the fold. 

He had no fear of government and war, 
A pleasant pastime and a means of fame, 

Was hit upon as just the kind of spice 
For one who wishes to preserve his name — 

Besides a row and bloodshed are so nice ! 



Alexander 

So thought said Alexander, and so think 

Some worthy nobles of this later time; 
'Tis only fools and coward knaves that shrink 

From wholesale murder, crying, '* War is crime ! " 
What is a dying groan? A fearful sound. 

Unless, of course, 'tis heard 'mongst many more 
Proceeding from a glorious battle ground — 

In that case 'tis as cheerful as the roar 
Of sunny waves upon a summer day. 

For fire and blood and desolation lend 
A pleasing panorama to the fray — 

But here we'll draw digression to an end. 

This Alexander, as I said, was bold, 

And strong as Hercules, from whom he came. 
And like Achilles, too, for we are told 

His mother claimed relation with the same. 
Thus when young Alex stood in readiness 

To wade, or swim, or fly the Hellespont, 
He asked the Delphi Oracle to bless 

The expedition ere he went upon 't. 
The priestess there refused to seek the shrine. 

Young Alex seized her, shouting, "Will you tell? 
By Jupiter, you'd better give the sign." 

" My son," said she, " thou'rt irresistible." 



lOI 



Alexander 

Yes, so it was, and so it is e'en now — 

We seek the shrine, we turn the sacred page, 
We bend our knees, conjure our thoughts, and bow 

Like puppets on a Punch-and-Judy stage. 
We ask for what we mean to get ; and then 

If 'tis refused we sear our conscience o'er, 
We misconstrue (ah, we are brilHant men!), 

Then take the matter up in prayer (?) once more, 
Determined though at all events to get 

The boon we seek, the privilege, the prize — 
Like Alexander do we chafe and fret, 

And take Heav'n's counsel only to despise. 



Then Alex bounded joyful in the air, 

" Enough ! Enough ! " cried he. '' It is enough ; 
I'll start for Persia, weather foul or fair ; 

What matter be the waters calm or rough! 
Let Antipater rule this little realm — 

Upon the ^gean be my sails unfurled, 
The Grecian Monarch shall direct the helm, 

Subdue the waves, and conquer all the world." 
He left the priestess wondering, half amazed, 

He left Olympias in bitter grief, 
He left behind reports that he was crazed, 

Together with some feelings of relief. 



Alexander 

A few friends gathered 'round him, pale and dumb, 

With saddened hearts and swollen eyelids wet. 
Said he, " I'll bring you laurels when I come." 

'Tis sad, but they are waiting for them yet. 
He left the shore^ his own, his native land. 

He stood, a tiny speck, far out to sea, 
One final wafture of his royal hand, 

He passed from sight beyond Thermopylae. 



Not altogether strange 's his lapse from sight, 

The same phenomenon surrounds us here ; 
At morn the pompous man struts forth, at night 

His fancied glories, honors disappear. 
E'en you, perhaps, a momentary king. 

Have launched your bark upon life's flowing sea, 
Heedless of what your venture yet may bring. 

You pass from sight beyond Thermopylae. 



O'er Persia's wilds the monarch took his way ; 

At Granicus, at Issus, Sidon, Tyre, 
His allied foemen come, they kneel and pray 

For mercy from his lordship's mighty ire. 
A million strong the morning sun revealed 

The Persians gathered for the final fight; 

103 



Alexander 

Alas, upon Arbela's fated field 

They lay in ghastly heaps at dead of night. 

At Gordium the famous knot was shown ; 

" Is not this knot not that knot not untied ? " 
The monarch asked ; and when the knot was known 

To be the one, young Alexander tried 
To disentangle then the criss-cross mess. 

He pulled and hauled, and worked and worked in vain, 
Then drew his sword, and hissing, ''Now I guess! ! ? 
I ? " 

He cut the famous Gordian knot in twain. 
Then on the monarch strode toward Babylon, 

Belshazzar's ancient seat and Daniel's den — 
He took the route that Cyrus once had gone. 

The same which Bayard Taylor took since then. 
The city swung her gates to let him pass. 

And safe and sure upon the Persian throne 
The Grecian monach sat — it was, alas ! 

But very little better than his own. 



Possession is but half of all it seems; 

When once man gets the prize for which he yearned 
He finds anticipation pictures dreams 

More joyous than reality hard earned. 

104 



Alexander 

But wherefore pause to moralize on this, 
Or offer proof of what can be but true ? 

Contentment is the web and woof of bhss — 
Was 't found with Alexander ? Is 't with you ? 



Here dwelt Roxana^ queen of all 'twas fair, 

Pearl of the East, and Persia's brightest gem. 
'Twas here the monarch asked her, would she share 

With him the royal throne and diadem? 
His best and trusted friends should be her slaves, 

A diamond crown should decorate her head; 
For her he'd gladly make a million graves — 

She bowed and smiled, and they were straightway wed. 
Then for a time a partial happiness 

Hung 'round brave Alexander; but too soon 
Those narrow bounds began him to oppress. 

Contentment passed when set the honeymoon. 

Again he took his course away, away. 

O'er wilderness and scorching desert sand, 

Where the bright waters of the Orient play. 

And Indus sparkles through the southern land ; 

Still on he pressed, and kings in suppliance came, 
The wealth of all the world heaped at his feet, 

105 



Alexander 

The very gods sang praises to his name, 

All that the world could give was now complete. 

But still, withal, the monarch could not rest; 

Though more than he before had hoped was given, 
A wilder, mightier longing filled his breast 

To conquer unknown worlds in sight of Heaven. 
Then Alexander wept, the legends say. 

Wept briny tears, if such a name will please. 
Grieved that he found no others there to slay — 

Thank God, not all that weep shed tears like these. 

In vain Roxana sought to calm her lord ; 

Her dazzling beauty, too, no more he knew; 
All that he'd won were prizes he abhorred, 

Despised the old, he panted for the new. 



Thus like a caged lion 'round he paced. 

The world his cage, yet all too small 't had grown. 
No dangers there that had not then been faced, 

No jewels not already made his own. 
And yet in all the splendor of his state 

Young Alexander sickened, waned, and died; 
Dissatisfied with fame, with power, with fate. 

With pomp, with love, with life dissatisfied. 

io6 



Alexander 

Such was the end of Alexander. We 

Are Alexanders, all. We strive for that 
Which, when 'tis won, can scarcely make a plea 

For wealth or worth. We know not where we're at. 
Satiety we dream of ne'er is known; 

From place to place we climb, yet none are high 
Enough to satisfy — thus on and on 

We strive, we toil, we conquer, and we die. 



107 



Fancies and Follies 



HOW TO BE HAPPY. 

" How to be happy ? " Why, bless me, 
'Tis easy as whittHng o' lead — 
Turn three or four cartwheels an' han'-springs, 
'N 'en Stan' half an hour on yer head. 

'' Ye can't? " Well, then, foller my biddin', 
An' dew suthin' else till ye kin; 
Think up suthin' spry in a jiffy, 
'N 'en hop up an' down an' begin. 

Jes' scrub some white paint on yer for'ed. 
To kiver the wrinkles an' scowls. 

An' 'en journey out to the barnyard 
An' chase the ol' rooster an' fowls — 

But pick up yer lip while yer goin' ; 

Ye mus'n't step on it, ye know, 
Fer these thirty years o' complainin' 

Hev probably left it real low. 

Now prick up yer ears an' look pleasant. 
Jest smile whare ye used to look cross, 
io8 



Fancies and Follies 

An' when ye meet Jones out a walkin' 
Jest holler, " Hello, thar, ol' boss ! " 

But try to lose sight o' the dollar — 
Compashun, ah, that's the real pelf! 

O' course, ye'v hed lots o' compashun, 
But most of it's been fer yerself. 

Jest look 'round an' see whut yer meetin' ; 

I'll bet ye won't git half a mile 
Afore ye'll find use fer yer pity, 

An' make some one glad with yer smile; 

An' 'fore many days hev gone over, 
Ye'll find out 'tis jest as I said, 

Ye'll be happy 'nough to turn han'-springs. 
An' Stan' half an hour on yer head. 



IRONS IN THE FIRE. 

Mike Suttin hez a model plan 
Fer makin' both ends meet; 

He works a scraggly little farm. 
An' auctions on the street, 
109 



Fancies and Follies 

An' keeps books fer a country store, 

An' teaches deestrict schule; 
He's also jestice uv the peace, 

An' works with square an' rule. 
Sez Mike, " I'm workin' day an' night 

To git to suthin' higher — - 
Thet's why I hev these various irons 

All stickin' in the fire." 

Sez he, " 'Taint best to hev yer goods 

All bottomed by one boat — 
Ef them from China chance to sink. 

Them from Brazil 'ill float, 
Er mebbe all come into port. 

Without a flappin' sail, 
A-laughin' at the elements. 

The dashin' waves, the gale. 
It's jest my plan that makes men rich. 

An' mighty high an' wise ; 
We take advantage o' the world. 

By plannin' 'gin su'prise." 

But," sez I, *' S'pose now thet yer goods. 

An' sailors, too, wuz few, 
Would ye divide the cargo then. 

An' 'en divide the crew? 
no 



Fancies and Follies 

Er jest suppose, despite Conceit, 

That ever boastin' dunce. 
Them measly Httle irons o' yourn 

All git red hot at once ? 
I'm much inclined to think it's best 

To foller one thing through ; 
Ye choke yerself by bitin' off 

A chunk ye can't quite chew." 

" Jest take the iron ye think 'ill yield 

Most readily to your blow. 
An' pound an' pound an' pound an' pound, 

An' let the others go. 
An' endin' up, jest let me say, 

Ez fur ez I kin see, 
One iron's 'bout all a man kin pound, 

An' pound successfully." 



NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS. 

Ten little resolutions, line after line. 

Good man burns his thumb, then there are but nine. 

Nine little resolutions, wondering at fate. 

Ten dollars comes in sight, then there are but eight. 



Fancies and Follies 

Eight little resolutions point the way to heaven, 
'Long comes a poker game, then there are but seven. 

Seven little resolutions in a sorry fix. 

Pretty woman passes by, then there are but six. 

Six little resolutions trying hard to thrive, 
'Long comes a horse race, then there are but five. 

Five little resolutions, only five, no more. 

Keyhole can't be found at all, then there are but four. 

Four little resolutions still must pay a fee, 

Wife makes some inquiry, then there are but three. 

Three little resolutions, looking very blue. 
Jealousy comes creeping in, then there are but two. 

Two little resolutions, pondering what's done. 
Preacher's sermon hurts the man, then there is but one. 

One little resolution leaves a month before — 
Never mind, on New Year's Day you can make some 
more. 



112 



Fancies and Follies 



STRANGE THINGS 

Some things are strange, so very strange, 

And funny as can be — 
I met a man the other day 

Who saw he couldn't see. 

To-day I saw another man, 

It is no lie in sooth, 
Because he has a broken leg 

He lies to tell the truth. 

And what is more, I saw a boy — 

It is no idle talk — 
A real big boy ; and this same boy 

Was running on a walk. 

I found a cobbler mending shoes, 

A- working hard and fast ; 
And though he toiled upon the first 

He worked upon the last. 

He had some twenty tools around. 

If rightly I recall 
The circumstance, he picked up one, 

And swore it was his awl. 
113 



Fancies and Follies 

October last I went to town, 
'Twas fair-day, so they said, 

Yet all day long the rain poured down 
From black clouds overhead. 

The farmers' race came off that day. 

And if I am not blind, 
The fellow who came in ahead 

Went rolling out behind. 

He was a lean and hungry man, 

As empty as a gull ; 
And yet 'twas very plain to see 

The man was pretty full. 

The day was over, and we all 
Went speeding home at last, 

The hungry man ran past me, sir, 
But I was not sur-passed ; 

For in the midst of the affair 

I took a sudden scoot. 
And shot some twenty feet ahead, 

But never moved a foot. 



114 



Fancies and Follies 



IN CHURCH 

In goln' to church folks hev their whims 

About whut part is best; 
Some Hke the way the preacher smiles, 

An' some, the way he's dressed; 
An' some declare his voice is fine. 

Stentorian, ef you please. 
While others say his pantaloons 

Bag too much at the knees. 
Still other people come, perhaps. 

To flaunt a muslin gown, 
An' others come a strollin' in 

To set an' gape aroun'. 
Or listen to Tobias Toots, 

An' wink an' grin to hear 
His same old injun-rubber words 

Twang on the atmosphere. 
'N 'en other people don't much care 

About sech things ez these, 
They come to hear the organ play, 

Or deacon Belcher sneeze; 
But fer myself, I frankly own. 

My one an' sole desire, 

115 



Fancies and Follies 

Is jes' to watch the goo-goo eyes 
Proceedin' frum the choir. 

An' O sech puckers turned to smiles, 

Sech giggles half suppressed; 
I wisht I knowed whut sweet desires, 

Are smothered in each breast. 
Jes' see them bright eyes peering out 

Frum 'neath each jaunty brim, 
While with their heads perched on one side. 

The choir looks for the him! 
O' course, not all admire the same 

Ez whut is nice to me — 
We vary somewhat, me an' you. 

An' others gen'ally. 
Our pu'poses is diff'rent, too, 

Ez I hev said before, 
An' whar one comes to church to pray, 

They's two thet come to snore. 

Some come, o' course, fer exercise. 

An' linger in the hall ; 
Some come fer this an' some fer that, 

An some fer naught at all. 
But I go, ez I said before. 

Not jes' to show my clothes, 
ii6 



Fancies and Follies 

Not jes' to set an' gape aroim', 
Nor snore in sweet repose; 

I go becuz I jes' can't help 
A humorin' my desire 

To see them pretty goo-goo eyes, 
Proceedin' frum the choir. 



ADAM VINDICATED 

Five thousand years have come and gone 
Since Adam took the proffered fruit — 

Five thousand years we've mused upon 
The why he ate so meekly mute. 

Condemned ? " Aye, yes, a million times. 
By frail, frail man, condemned, abused - 

In speeches, lectures, sermons, rhymes^ 
Our great ancestor's been accused 

Of weakly yielding up our right 
To live and love 'neath Eden's wall, 

Consigning us to groping night. 
To weep o'er our untimely fall. 
117 



Fancies and Follies 

** O, Adam, wherefore didst thou this ? " 
They ask, as if they had forgot 
That they themselves e'er went amiss — 
As who 'mongst human kind have not ? 

The daughters of that self-same Eve 
Who, smiling, led his steps astray, 

They smile, and, lo, those smiles deceive 
A world of Adamses to-day. 

And I am one. I frankly own 
I never could resist such wiles — 

Such eyes, such dimpled cheeks I've known! 
Who is impervious to their smiles? 

It is too much for human heart, 
Let rocks resist them if they can; 

To yield, then feel the cruel smart. 
Thus much it is to be a man. 

And, Adam, thou wast one, indeed, 
A very king 'mongst mortal men — 

Were God to place one in thy stead. 
The poor old world were lost again. 



ii8 



Fancies and Follies 



THEN AND NOW 

She sits beside me now, 

The one, the same 
Who years ago 

Took on my shorter name. 
The same is she 

To whom my vows were told. 
Who pledged to me 

Herself to have and hold. 

I had her then ; 

I held her tightly, too. 
Again and yet again 

I sealed the vow — 
But hush ! Suppose that she 

(She does sometimes) 
Requests to see 

And read my new-born rhymes 1 

She's looking at me now. 

I must refrain; 
Twere sacrilege that vow 

To tell again. 

no 



Fancies and Follies 

'Twere false indeed 

To advertise like this 
Love's dearest meed, 

A lover's am'rous kiss. 

I'll do it not — 

And yet I like to tell 
Of sacred spot 

Wherein I used to — well, 
No matter what it was ; 

There's no regret. 
By all love's laws 

I love her dearly, yet. 

Her cheek is thin. 

Her laugh has grown less gay, 
Her raven locks be^in 

To show the gray. 
And Time, impressed 

Upon her brow, has told 
What you have guessed — 

My sweetheart's growing old. 

And I too feel, 

Though very glib of tongue, 

120 



Fancies and Follies 

Not all the zeal 

I felt when I was young. 
My shining crown, 

Protruding in the air, 
Disdains the down 

That used to flourish there. 



Yet love I do 

Most truly ; though I'll say 
I seldom coo 

In youth's accustomed way. 
I look at her^ 

And she returns the glance 
As if it were 

Not choice, but merely chance. 



Nor is it that we fear 

Some prying eyes. 
For none are near ; 

Our lodge in silence lies 
Our charter members gone, 

John, Jane, and Will — 
And we're alone 

To travel down the hill. 

121 



Fancies and Follies 

Our feet are cold. 

But still our hearts are warm ; 
We're growing old, 

But youth has left its charm. 
We're really prone 

To love each other yet, 
Though we've outgrown 

Each tender epithet 
Of — 
" Deary," 
" Ducky," 
" Dovey," 

" Honey," 
" Pet." 



KEEP COOL 



I LIKE that old advice so very much ; 

No one except a pessimist or fool 
Has ever or will e'er complain of such 

Good, sound advice as that old phrase, " Keep cool." 

I'm writing this, my say, the loth of June, 
So judge if I'm consistent or if not; 



Fancies and Follies 

Time — just a trifle past the hour of noon, 
Conditions — blazing sun, and boiling hot. 

But where am I — you think that I am caught, 
With ne'er a leaf between me and the sky, 

A-mopping sweat from off my " dome of thought ; 
But there you're wrong, that fellow is not I. 

I'm in a shady arbor, if you please. 
Reposing on a cushion-covered stool. 

While songs of birds and hum of drowsy bees 
Reiterate that old advice, " Keep cool." 

The gentle wind is ruffling up my hair, 
And coursing up the muzzle of my sleeve; 

This is a pleasant place, I do declare — 

I'll even swear 'tis pleasant, by your leave. 

It takes me back to other, earlier times. 
To shady bank and placid woodland pool 

(Before I sought the cooling balm of rhymes). 
Where as a boy I practised " keeping cool." 

A pool of water here would, doubtless, quite 
Unarm me, and perhaps undress me, too; 
123 



Fancies and Follies 

In spite of age and rheumatiz, I might 
Plunge headlong in, as I was wont to do. 

But as I ne'er have wept or sighed as yet, 
I feel I'm now too old to play the fool ; 

I won't forget, regret, or even fret, 

But do as I have always done, '' Keep cool." 



MARCH 

March," is the order. The wind has obeyed. 

The snow moves, and Jack Frost comes out on parade. 

'Tis a blust'ring command to a blust'ring array 

That starts at the dawn of a blustering day, 

In a rather decidedly blustering way. 

The earth's promised smile is exchanged for a frown ; 

The country 's in uproar, and so is the town. 

There's war at the doorway of ev'ry abode, 

And the force of the foe barricades ev'ry road. 

There's General Worry, and Gen'ral Dismay, 
Ahead of the legions that scurry away ; 
There's Corporal Scarf and General Hood, 
And of course there is General Clamor for Wood ; 

124 



Fancies and Follies 

And these, all of these, with many unseen, 

Have taken the field against General Green, 

With flank movements left, and flank movements right, 

And forces reserved for surprises at night. 

March," is the order that's given ; and forth, 

In criss-cross and zigzag, pell-mell from the north, 

The skirmishers sally in riot and rout. 

And each in the rear of a blustering scout ; 

But still in the van of a quadruple file, 

Which takes but ten seconds to cover a mile. 

And so they sweep on, with their disordered ranks, 

To form on the breastworks of General Banks. 

And now come the spies through each crevice and crack. 
Your fire may be good, but you can't keep them back ; 
They enter the window, they enter the door, 
They walk in the air, and they creep on the floor. 
They gather around you. You tremble and stare 
As the ghost of your breath marches off through the 
air. 



125 



Fancies and Follies 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT 

Midnight — and on a gloomy road 

That wound along a stream, 
I passed benighted on my way, 

Where lay the pale moonbeam ; 
Harking along beneath the stars 

That shot their dim rays through 
The denser foliage of the wood, 

One thought was all I knew. 
I heard the stream with rush and gush 

Go dancing on its way, 
As happy there at dead of night 

As at the noon of day; 
And I, with thoughts of one I loved, 

Was more than happy, too — 
Said I aloud, " I'd die for her "— 

Then some one said, "Who, who?" 

Startled by this bold questioner, 
I roused me from my dream. 

And peering out into the gloom. 
I hurried 'long the stream; 
126 



Fancies and Follies 

But all grew silent, and again 
The moon peered down on me, 

And I was wafted back into 
My broken reverie — 

Two pouting, ruby lips I saw. 

And looked in fond surprise 
To see a rosy dimpled cheek, 

And two soft hazel eyes ; 
'Twas then I spoke again to self, 

The while the moon was hid, 
" Who let you kiss those lips last night ? " 

A voice yelled, " Katy-did." 

I blushed, and would have stammered back 

A blank denial there. 
But there was naught but midnight gloom. 

And silence everywhere. 
Save that the gurgling water ran. 

No sound was far or near; 
I barkened, but no other sound 

Broke on my listening ear. 
Then once again my thoughts turned back. 

The while my feet went on. 
And soon again I walked and dreamed, 

My conscious thoughts all gone. 
127 



Fancies and Follies 

Those tempting lips and dazzling eyes, 

That dimpled, blushing cheek, 
A thousand charms appealed to me, 

Demanding I should speak; 
In fancy then I smacked her lips, 

And as I clasped her still 
I asked, what will your father do? 

A voice piped, *' Whip-poor-will." 



ADAPTABILITY 

She had a head as nicely formed as woman ever had ; 
She had a countenance, 'twould drive a common lover 

mad; 
An eye as blue as summer skies, a voice so clear and 

free ! — 
And knowledge that might well have awed a university. 

She knew — but hold ! 'Twould take too long to tell you 

all she knew ; 
I'll tell you what she didn't know in just a word or two. 
She didn't know the way to act to make the parents see 
That Grecian bend in Learning's back — Adaptability. 

128 



Fancies and Follies 

She couldn't smile when half provoked, or laugh when she 

was sad, 
Nor shed a tear when she was gay, or groan when she was 

glad. 
She couldn't say that blue is green, or wrong, adorned, 

is right. 
But firmly held that black is black, and white is simply 

white. 

She couldn't always wear the cloak that other people 

donned, 
She couldn't see in the a thu, nor make of and an ond ; 
Though she was wise and witty, too, with ample grace 

and ease. 
She couldn't watch professors snuf¥, then join in on the 

sneeze. 

In short, I say, and say in short (however much I long 
To add another stanza to the tale end of my song), 
She couldn't part with Commonsense to flirt with Policy, 
She failed, and all because she lacked Adaptability, 



129 



Fancies and Follies 



PREPARATION 

Some people live and die, just this, no more; 
They live in hope, and die before 'tis o'er — 
They hope ere death to do some mighty deed 
Ordained by fate, and by the gods decreed. 
And so from day to day, from year to year, 
Th' inevitable end, unnoticed, drawing near, 
By hope deluded, trusting yet to find 
The fabled fountain of a selfish mind. 
They journey on, or rather 'round and 'round, 
Their days, their years, by narrow circles bound — 
The thing they seek, if ever here, is gone 
To beckon still as still they journey on. 

Year follows year, decade succeeds decade. 
The frost appears where summer's bloom delayed; 
The kindnesses that waited to be done, 
By which alone an enviable fame is won. 
Have oft, unheeded by a pompous pride, 
Been trampled down or coldly cast aside. 
The flowers that should have bloomed for human eyes. 
Theirs have not seen, or, seeing, but despise ; 
The light that might have gleamed behind to show 
A brighter path where other feet must go, 

130 



Fancies and Follies 

Has been extinguished ; thus they leave no trace 
No flower, no tear, to bless the human race. 
They live, they die, careless of others' woe, 
Seeking alone the miser's aim below ; 
They live, they die, life ends as 'twas begun — 
A dream, a preparation, nothing done. 



CONCLUSIONS — ON SEEING A DUDE 

You may swing mighty high for a time. 
As a strut or significant mime — 

You may really be king 

Of some great, local ring, 
'Gainst whom e'en a whisper is crime. 

A fire-fly just for a night. 

You too may appear with your light — 

With a purse full of cash 

You may glimmer and flash 
Till the night-fog obscures you from sight. 

You are graceful and haughty and tall. 
The fop of the town and the ball — 

You are something — but what ? 

A fool, like as not. 
Whose ground-work is nothing at all. 

131 



Fancies and Follies 

You're the talk o' the town^ O, Ah, Yes! 
And engaged to some *' lovely Miss Bess ' 

You're a wonderful chap, 

An official, mayhap. 
Or a groc'ryman's son, as I guess. 

You are one o' the men o' the game, 
A wonder of great local fame — 

A leader who's led 

By a half-empty head. 
With a paste-diamond crown on the same. 

'Tis strange, but 'tis true, ne'ertheless, 
And saddening, too, I confess, 

Ev'ry dog has his day, 

Ev'ry fop has his sway. 
While sensible folk have distress. 



REASON 

There's reason in the strangest things. 
If one had but the power to find it — 

The virtue of all nature springs 

From being skilled and schooled to mind it. 
132 



Fancies and Follies 

Thus, men who draw but Httle pay, 

They needs must strut among the proudest. 

As those who have the least to say 

Just almost " have to " talk the loudest. • 

Aye, many a thing is misconstrued 
Because we view it not adroitly ; 

Thus polished glass appears less crude 
Than rarest diamond polished slightly. 

So she who never had a beau 

To swear his love and daily bless her, 

Tells of some dozen, don't you know. 
All crazy, dead-gone, to caress her. 

E'en politicians, too, are wise. 

Though paid the wages of a novice, 

Behind it all a big graft lies — 

That's why they fight and foam for office. 

And last, as they appear most nice 
In whom revenge the longest rankles, 

So girls who feign great fear of mice. 
Are girls who have the cutest ankles. 



133 



Fancies and Follies 



HUMANITY 

In tracing up the various faults 

To which mankind is heir, 
The great, the small, the odds and ends, 

Scraped up from here and there. 
No doubt you'll find some flinty breast 

Their hiding place^ but then. 
There's still a deal of heavenliness 

Within the worst of men. 

In tracing up the virtues, all, 

To which mankind is heir, 
The virtues great, the virtues small. 

The virtues odd and rare, 
Perhaps you'll find them centered in 

Some other breast, but then 
There's still a lot of hellishness 

Within the best of men. 

Thus be reluctant to condemn. 

Nor anxious to condone; 
'Tis righteous, judging lives of men. 

To measure first your own ; 

134 



Fancies and Follies 

For where you see the works of God, 
The Devil's too you'll find; 

Though one be most in evidence, 
The other lurks behind. 



HE BEAT THE DEVIL 

I WANT no grand mausoleum, 

To mark the spot wherein I lie, 
I want no polished minaret 

To split the overhanging sky; 
I want no classic stanzas carved, 

To mitigate an earthly evil, 
I want a simple marble slab, 

And 'neath my name, " He beat the devil." 

I want no pomp, no gilded show, 

That plays too oft the sickly part ; 
I would not in my last repose 

Be subject to a dotard's art; 
Let me but have a wreath of flowers, 

To speak me none below man's level. 
Then carve my name, and underneath, 

This simple line, " He beat the devil." 
135 



Fancies and Follies 

And ye who know me best in life, 

Should chance to bring you to that spot, 
Look not in sadness on my grave. 

Nor weep o'er my untimely lot, 
But tell it, if in truth ye may. 

How far my square bent toward a bevel ; 
If not, then read my line, and say, 

" In very truth, he beat the devil." 



IMPERATIVE 

Steen times the bell had clanged 
To call the boys to place, 

Steen times Miss Jones harangued 
These boys on need of grace. 

But still whene'er the bell 

'Gan rocking to and fro. 
The boys rushed in pell-mell. 

And up the stair they'll go. 

Panting and puffing loud. 

Though 'twas against the rule. 

This pesky, roguish crowd 
Would rush into the school. 
136 



Fancies and Follies 

Till finally, one day, 

The steenth time, as I said. 
The mistress barred the way. 

Her face with anger red. 

The foremost to advance, 
She caught him by the hair. 

Said she, '' Your puffs and pants. 
Hereafter leave down there." 



THE SUMMER GIRL 

She was handsome, pert, and prim. 
Tall and graceful, neat and slim. 
And therefore had no use for him. 

An honest, but common farmer. 
He lacked in style and fop-grimace ; 
Though pleasing, his was a sunburned face, 
His heart was right, but such sad grace 

Could never charm such charmer. 

She wanted a lover pale and white. 
With brows as black as a stormy night, 
A beau with four gold teeth in sight. 
Or five, perhaps, when smiling. 
137 



Fancies and Follies 

She wanted a beau with raven hair, 
With eyes as bright as diamonds rare, 
A lover that spoke with a Boston air. 
With no thought of beguihng. 

She wanted a man with tailor clothes, 
A double chin and Grecian nose; 
In fact, the real, true beau of beaux 

Alone could suit her liking — 
A lover who could trill the r. 
Ignore the same, pronouncing far. 
Or call it h when found in star — 

All others might go hiking. 

But whether or not she found such beau 
I can not say, for I don't know; 
My part is done if I can show 

The one for whom she tarried — 
A short, fat man, complexion red, 
A hooked nose and bleak, bald head; 
And yet in broad daylight, 'tis said. 

She looked at the man she married. 



138 



Fancies and Follies 



THE IMITATOR 

A SAGE professor, who was wont to take 

Long walks across the fields for Science' sake, 

Procured a monkey of the comic sort 

From southern sailors lately come to port — 

Just why he bought the' beast, I frankly own, 

I ne'er have asked^ and therefore ne'er have known. 

At any rate, he bought it, and the sage, 

Like some proud monarch followed by his page, 

Led off th' 'customed way across the fields, 

The monkey foll'wing close upon his heels. 



His telescope the sage had thought to bring, 
And something else in shape much like the thing 
A bottle filled with something which I think 
The wise professor never meant to drink. 
And so they sauntered on from bog to bog. 
Along the stream, and over woodland log, 
Till presently the sage, whose careful eye 
Was trained all curious objects to espy, 
In gazing o'er the landscape chanced to see 
A something strange within a distant tree. 

139 



Fancies and Follies 

Not knowing what it was, he set about 
The rather pleasant task of finding out; 
He put the bottle down, and looking through 
His telescope, 'gan smiling at the view. 

Meantime the monk, who was forgotten quite, 
Grew quite hilarious, as well he might. 
And then for lack of something else to do 
He thought he'd take a squint at that thing too. 
So taking up the bottle from the ground, 
And whirling it some dozen times around. 
He drew the cork in imitative style, 
Grinning with satisfaction all the while; 
Then with the nozzle close against his eye 
He swung the bottom quickly toward the sky. 
O, sad dismay ! He could not see at all 
For blinding floods of gurgling alcohol. 
His yells could scarcely set the matter 'right ; 
He pickled but could not preserve his sight. 

The moral is : A wiser man can do 

What may not be the proper thing for you. 

Beware of aping others ; as a rule 

Their wisdom proves that you're a common fool. 



140 



Fancies and Follies 



THE SILENT ONE 

Don't tell me what you are going to do, 

To-morrow's too far away ; 
Don't tell me too much of what you've done, 

But what are you doing to-day? 

" I'm-going-to," is a lazy lout, 
That's always calling to you 
To sit in the shade while the weeds grow rank. 
And your notes lapse, over-due. 

" See-what-I've-done," is a bold-faced brag 
That stands in the selfsame track, 
And stops you just as the race begins, 
And gets you to looking back. 

'Tis only '' I'm-doing " that ought to speak, 
Or that ought, at least, to be heard; 

But he is the fellow who's doing so much. 
He hasn't time for a word. 



141 



Fancies and Follies 



WHUT WON'T LOVE DEW? 

When I wuz a feller, long time since 

I tell yeou 
I used ter give my Sunday squints 

An' smiles ter Sue. 

She wuz the gal I used ter eye, 
(What won't love dew?) 

An' picture out the by-an'-by 
Fer me an' Sue. 

I thought she kind o' took ter me. 

An' so I grew 
All thet a feller ought to be. 

An' sued fer Sue. 

I went ter see her one bright night, 
Clothes all bran' new. 

An' sot down in the firelight 
An' sez I : " Sue, 

" I want ter know jes' heouw yeou feel, 
For I tell yeou 
I'm as oneasy as a eel — " 
An' 'en sez Sue : 
142 



Fancies and Follies 

I'm feelin' 'bout thet way myself." 

'N 'en I jes' threw 
Conservatism on the shelf, 

An' sez I : " Sue, 

Will yeou be mine ? Jes' tell me that "■ 

" I will," sez Sue. 
I kissed her right thar, 'fore the cat — 

Whut won't love dew ! 



NERO 

Moscow is burning, but where now is Nero, 
Nero the heartless, with fiddle so gay? 

Moscow is burning, but poor, trembling Nero 
Fears the gay sound of his fiddle to-day. 

Oft has he played in the midst of disaster, 
Oft when the fires of oppression leaped forth, 

Leaving behind them the dark frown of ruin. 
Fiddled this Nero, this fiend of the North. 

Now when the flames at their highest are climbing. 
Leaping and dancing aloft in the air, 

143 



Fancies and Follies 

Reaching their red tongues far out in their hunger, 
Where now is he, the gay fiddler, O, where? 

Time and again through the smoke-cloud we've seen him 
Smiling when others faced death and dismay — 

Time and again has this gay, heartless Nero 
Sat 'midst Rome's ruins and fiddled away. 

Now let him look to it ! Now let him tremble, 
Truly the fires of oppression burn dim; 

Other fl^fmes rage now to Nero's own ruin — 

The red tongues of Freedom are reaching for him. 

Moscow is burning, but where now is Nero — 
Nero, the heartless, with fiddle so gay? 

Moscow is burning, but poor, trembling Nero 
Fears the gay sound of his fiddle to-day. 



POOR CZAR 

Poor, troubled Czar, across the frozen sea. 
How it does wring the heart in human breast, 

What scalding tears drop from mine eyes for thee 
As thou in thy bleak palace seekest rest. 
But all in vain ! O Czar oppressed, oppressed ! 

144 



Fancies and Follies 

They seek thee out, meek and defenseless one, 
Hard-hearted brutes, and on their bended knees 

They beg as their rude fathers might have done — 
For selfish trifles they disturb thy ease, 
For hfe and liberty — just these, just these! 

Have they not homes? Ah, yes, across the plain, 
Bright, cheerful huts, warmed by the arctic snow- 

They have the self-same comforts Tamerlane 
Detailed to them six hundred years ago. 
And yet, O Czar, they're not contented so. 

When I but think of thy great sacrifice, 

Those sunny homes 'neath mild, Siberian skies. 

How many thou hast furnished — and the price — 
My soul is filled with wonder and surprise 
At what of pity in thy fond breast lies. 

These brutes have children, too, a shameless crowd, 
That cry for bread, and clamor day by day. 

While foolish mothers weep and moan aloud, 
As if starvation could be wept away. 
Or hunger be deprived of its just prey. 

Then come they here to thee from near and far, 
A vulgar sight to vision such as thine — 

145 



Fancies and Follies 

Poor, troubled, trembling, luckless^ hapless Czar, 
Penned in thy gloomy palace to repine, 
Thy sorrow needs must wring such hearts as mine. 

Well done, my lord ! The rabble has thy frown. 

What do these pauper beggars at thy door? 
Send forth the word and strike the wretches down ; 

What has God made such worthless creatures for? 

To die, of course ; what could they hope for more ? 

Ah, yes, dear Czar, my pity flies to thee; 
I stand for thee whatever thou shalt do — 

Poor, trembling monarch, 'cross the frozen sea, 
I would suggest, though I shall e'er prove true. 
Thou ask God's pity — thou mayest need that too. 



WHAT OF THAT? 

He may beat you at the business — 

What of that? 
He is graceful, smooth, and winning, 

You are flat. 
With a corner here and there, 
146 



Fancies and Follies 

That can hardly speak you fair, 
You can scarcely hope to bear 
A part like that. 

He may have a charming voice, but 

What of that? 
He may lecture where you hardly 

Dare to chat. 
He may have the sort of style 
That is bettered by a smile, 
But I'd be myself awhile 

For all of that. 

Let him have his share of praise, 

He merits that ; 
You are not supposed to sit 

Where he has sat. 
Don't put on his nat'ral face. 
And affect his nat'ral grace. 
Better far to lose the race 

Than do that. 

You are you, and no one else; 

Remember that. 
You can hardly hope to wear 

Another's hat. 

147 



Fancies and Follies 

If you've anything to say, 
Talk it only in your way, 

Don't be something that eats hay ; 

Remember that. 



SUNSHINE 

There's a girl they call " Sunshine." When I was a boy 

She was just a wee bit of a thing; 
But her eyes were a bait, an unfailing decoy, 

And, in truth, she got me on the string. 

I used to look up in a sly, bashful way, 

To catch the soft gleam of her smile. 
I'll swear to the truth of my statement, and say, 

You could hear my heart beating a mile. 

She grew,, and I grew ; we both grew, and then 
Of nights, in the warm summer weather, 

What envy was mine from the other young men 
As she and I strolled out together! 

148 



Fancies and Follies 

One night as we walked, in my hand was a ring, 
In my thoughts was the question, "Why Unger?" 

She snatched the bright jewel, and cried, "Why, John 
King, 
That's j ust the right size for my finger ! " 

" Now, Sunshine," said I, " by name I'm a King — 

Do I claim you as queen all in vain ? " 
She answered, and smiled as she looked at the ring, 

"Do you think that Sunshine could reign ? " 



149 



Translations 
THE LORELEI 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE 

I KNOW not the cause of my sadness, 

Unless such a sorrow can be 
Pent up in a misty old legend 

That years have not taken from me. 
I wander along in the twilight 

And list to the flow of the Rhine, 
While up on the peak of the mountain 

Is the glow of the evening sunshine. 

And there sits a beautiful maiden, 

A maiden so radiant and rare. 
The setting sun smiles on her features 

And tangles his gold in her hair; 
And there she sits combing her tresses 

And singing at close of the day, 
While the sweetest of music is wafted 

Away, o'er the waters away. 

A boat on the river once floated, 
A boatman was carried along; 

He saw not the rocks in the water, 
And listened to naught but the song, 
150 



Translations 

Heard naught but the exquisite music, 
Till, hurled on the rocks of the stream, 

Night silenced the Lorelei's singing, 
And death put an end to the dream. 



MIGNON. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE 

Knowest thou of the land where the citron doth bloom, 
Where the gold-orange peers from its foliage gloom, 
Where the soft breezes blow from the clear summer sky, 
Where the myrtle peeps out and the laurel climbs high? 
Knowest thou of this land ? It is there I would be. 
It is there I would go, my beloved, with thee. 

Knowest thou of the house with its pillars of stone. 
With its bright, spacious hall and apartments well known. 
Where the stone statues stand as if speaking to me, 
" My child, dearest child, what has happened to thee ? " 
Knowest thou of that house ? It is there I would flee, 
It is there I would dwell, O protector, with thee. 

Knowest thou of the mountains where clouds ever stay. 
Where the mountain-ass gropes through the mists on his 
way. 



Translations 

Where in the dark cave dwells the dragon's fell brood, 
And the rocks thund'ring down swell the roar of the flood ? 
Knowest thou of this region? Through this must we 

stray — 
O, let us away, father, let us away. 



THE RICH PRINCE 

FROM THE GERMAN OF KERNER 

Praised by many for their countries and their countries' 

worth and all, 
Sat many German princes once in Worms's Imperial Hall. 
" Lordly," said the Prince of Saxon, '' is my land, and 

much its worth. 
Silver hedges all its mountains ; 'tis the treasure ground 

of earth." 

" See my land in plenteous fulness," said th' Elector of the 

Rhine, 
" Golden cities in the valleys ; on the mountains, gushing 

wine ! " 

" Mighty states and wealthy convents," Ludwig, Lord of 
Bairn, replied, 

152 



Translations 

" Make me equal to the richest, make me worthy of your 
pride." 

Eberhard, beloved Lord of Wurtemberg, arose: 

" My land has smaller cities, and no mines in it repose. 

Yet it holds one hidden treasure — with the people of my 

state, 
I live in peace and harmony, for no one bears me hate." 

Then said the Lord of Saxon, and of Bairn, and of the 

Rhine, 
" O, Count, thou art the richest ! Would thy wealth were 

mine ! " 



GEMS FROM HEINE 

DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME 

To me thou art a blushing flower, 

So modest, pure, and bright — 
Yet in my heart at thought of thee 

There steals a vague twilight; 
And with my hands outstretched I pray 

That Heaven will lend its power 
To keep thee e'er as now thou art, 

A pure and modest flower. 

153 



Translations 

SCHONE, HELLE, GOLDNE STERNE 

Beautiful, bright, and golden stars, 
Greet for me my love in Heaven ; 

Say that I am true to her, 
Say my soul to her is given. 



ANFANGS WOLLT ICH FAST VERSAGEN 

Deep despair was my beginning, 

And I thought, " The end is now " — 

Yet, thus far I've borne my burden. 
But I can not answer how. 



154 



Historical Ballads 



THE DESIRE* 

In sixteen hundred thirty-six 
(The date is given, but to fix 
A milestone that you may not mix 

The great events of history) — 
In 1636, I say, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Brought out on Massachusetts Bay 

A wonder and a mystery. 

The day had scarce hung out his sign 
Above the distant water-Hne, 
To brighten up the shady brine 

That sable night was hiding. 
When lo, and laws, and my ! there lay 
A mystery, though plain as day. 
For there, on Massachusetts Bay, 

A bran-new ship was riding. 



*The Desire was the first Colonial vessel to cross the Atlantic. She was 
built at Marblehead in 1636. from which place she set sail for England in the 
month of May of the same year. The departure was made under protest of a 
number of the colonists, who predicted disaster. Nevertheless she made the trip 
successfully, returning in the autumn. 



Historical Ballads 

No product that of old John Bull — 
The bowsprit, yard-arm, mast, and hull, 
In fact, this boat^ this boat in full. 

Was homemade top and bottom. 
'Twas made, as everybody knew. 
Of pine trees and of oak that grew 
The other side of Deep Bayou; 

For that was where they got 'em. 

But no one thought the ship was done, 
Nor that 'twould be just such a one ; 
Some thought it wasn't yet begun 

Up there ten miles away. 
But, ne'ertheless, upon the night 
Before the day of which I write, 
This gallant, homemade water sprite, 

Met Massachusetts Bay. 

They didn't build her " long and deep," 
To cut the wave with '' scimitar sweep," 
But made her rather to duck and leap 

Whene'er a storm was brewing. 
They built her low and short and wide, 
With bottom flat as a plate beside — 
They didn't mean to stick when the tide 

The waning moon was pursuing. 
156 



Historical Ballads 

And there, as I said, at early dawn, 

Majestically frowning on 

The fishers' boats, like a great, proud swan 

On a flock of devil-divers, 
With gentle sway and stately dip 
Lay the aforesaid wonderful ship, 
Built for the purpose of making a trip 

Now made by twin-screw drivers. 

In every town are women and men 
Who think what can be must have been. 
This statement 's no truer now than when 

Those colonists woke that day 
To see the ship with towering mast, 
A masterpiece from first to last, 
Lie at the dock with anchor cast 

In Massachusetts Bay. 

At first they cried, *'A splendid ship ! " 
But later passed from lip to lip, 
* She'll never stand to make the trip. 
That much I know." 
But still the captain vowed and swore, 
' As I have crossed the main before, 
I'll run this ship to England's shore, 
Or down we'll go." 
157 



Historical Ballads 

I long to see my native land. 

To press again old Plymouth's strand, 

To grasp once more my mother's hand, 

Then sail away, 
And with fond hopes return once more 
With sweeter memories than before, 
And with my mother greet the shore 

Of Massachusetts Bay." 

No jeers or fear shall aught avail. 
In spite of tempest-sweeping gale, 
I'll steer her out and hoist the sail 

Once more for Wight." 
The blessings and good-bys were said. 
The ship was loosed ; the sails were spread, 
And 'yond the rocks of Marblehead^ 

She passed from sight. 

And so the days and weeks passed on ; 
And higher rose the summer sun, 
While daily some one muttered " gone," 

And smote his breast. 
But lo, three thousand miles away. 
At dawning of a summer day, 
Hove into sight on Plymouth Bay, 

A vessel from the west. 
158 



Historical Ballads 

The Plymouth boys stood 'round in awe ; 
The Plymouth sailors wond'ring saw. 
With, " By my trade ! " and " Zounds ! " and 
" Law ! " 

" How mighty queer ! " 
But still they wonder, still they stand. 
The captain leaps upon the strand. 
An old friend grasps him by the hand — 

" What brought you here ? " 

" 'Twas my desire " " Your desire ! 

Laws ! Zounds ! Let's step a little nigher, 
For by my trade you've got a flyer, 

A speeder all the same ! " 
The captain smiled and bit his lip — • 
" No^ Joe, I didn't mean the ship. 
But ere she take her homeward trip, 
Desire shall be her name." 

" 'Twas my desire to shake your hand 
Again on dear old Plymouth's strand, 
That I have left my new-found land 

Across the sea ; 
And yet, 'twas not for this alone. 
But something better still, I own — 
159 



Historical Ballads 

My mother waits in Plymouth town 
To sail with me." 



The summer passed, with all her train, 
And autumn, with her sleet and rain 
And chilly winds, had come again. 

When lo, one day, 
A stormy day when ocean's roar 
Swelled loud upon his rugged shore. 
The lost ship hove in sight once more 

On Massachusetts Bay. 

With bending mast and bellied sail. 
With swell of water in her trail, 
And reeling, veering in the gale, 

They saw her come — 
No battered, shattered wreck; instead. 
With yard and main and topsail spread^ 
They saw her round old Marblehead, 

In sight of home. 

The sails are furled, the voyage o'er. 
The anchor's dropped hard by the shore, 
The captain reaches land once more. 
At close of day. 

i6p 



Historical Ballads 

A welcome 'waits the long lost ship, 
The news is passed from lip to lip : 
'Tis she! She's here! She's made the trip, 
From Massachusetts Bay." 



V/ASHINGTON 

There's a line on the page of the record of fame, 

A line all apart from the rest, 
Where emblazoned in gold is the world-honored name 

Of a patriot son of the West. 

And the world reads and bows. Not a king in his pride 

But pays, though in secret, his fee — 
Go search where ye will o'er the earth far and wide ; 

Where Liberty breathes, there is he. 

From the years that have passed since oppression began, 

Call forth every patriot-son, 
Cull out the brave deeds from the records of man — 

What nobler than his have been done ? 

Not Greece in her power offered such to the world, 
Nor such sprang from Rome's regal sway; 

i6i 



Historical Ballads 

It was Ambition's flag Alexander unfurled, 
Self-glory's that led Caesar's way. 

Not so can we say of the pennant 'twas borne 

O'er the head of this patriot-son, 
It was Freedom's loved flag ; and with Freedom we mourn 

At the grave of the great Washington. 

There's a land on the roll of the record of fame, 

A land all apart from the rest. 
Where, emblazoned with stars, may be read the bright 
name 

Of this patriot's home in the West. 

O, there let him rest. Though his spirit shall roam 

Wherever oppression may be, 
His monument still be his own native home. 

The Land of the West and the Free. 



162 



Historical Ballads 



MONTGOMERY * 

Deep on th' desolate, northern plain 

Was piled the winter snow ; 
Th' ice-bound river ran amain 

With sad and muffled flow ; 
The fading light of a dying day 

Went creeping toward the west, 
And darkness o'er the landscape lay 

To wrap the world in rest. 

Beyond the cliff that rises far 

Midway 'twixt earth and sky. 
In pomp and panoply of war, 

The troops of Britain lie, 
Who, day by day and night by night, 

Are guarding the river shore 
From th' vantage ground of the famous fight 

In the old French war before. 

But off in the gloom on the farther side. 
Half hid by the gusts of snow. 



* Richard Montgomery was killed December 31. i775. while leading a charge 
against the fortifications of Quebec. 

163 



Historical Ballads 

Within the sound of the rolHng tide, 

The guards of a watchful foe, 
Ragged besiegers, indeed, but bold. 

Hungry, yet hopeful, they 
Are pacing all night in the bitter cold, 

Awaiting the flush of day. 

Men from the field of Lexington, 

Men from the woods of Maine, 
The raw recruit and the veteran. 

Are camped on the northern plain. 
Many a night they had waited there. 

Many a week had gone — 
Though Fortune frown, yet Hope will dare 

To venture on and on. 

So does it here. In fates despite, 

'Gainst Reason's wiser way. 
Throughout the cold December night 

Hope waits the final day. 
'Tis come. They form — they charge. In vain. 

The best and worst is done. 
Montgomery's dead on the frozen plain. 

And the hope of an army's gone. 



164 



Historical Ballads 



JOHN PAUL JONES 

(written on hearing" that an attempt is making 
TO find his grave) 

He sleeps not well his foster home apart, 
Apart from liberty and ocean's roar — 

Go forth and bring the dust of that brave heart 
To freedom's shore. 



Aye, look around, 'tis late, but look around. 

Search out th' unknown graves 'neath alien skies. 

For in some spot, perchance unhallowed ground. 
Our hero lies. 



Wrapt in what cerements — no matter now, 
We would reclaim our dauntless ocean scout; 

No matter where he passed away, or how — 
Go search him out. 



Aye, be it soil of France^ or where it may. 

These hundred years and more have passed in vain 

Go search and find, then bring his mortal clay 
To us again. 

165 



tiistorical Ballads 

And let the flag for which he fought, unfurled, 
Flaunt all her glorious colors to the sky, 

When he again shall cross the watery world 
At home to lie. 



BUNKER HILL 

There was Howe within the valley, 

He alone could lead them on; 
And behind him marched the stormers, 

At an early hour of dawn. 
'Cross the valley, up the hillside. 

At the nooning of the day. 
Where behind the rude abattis 

The embattled farmers lay. 

There was Prescott on the hilltop, 

Standing on the wall alone, 
While below him lay his rebels. 

Little feared, and all unknown. 
There was Warren in the trenches, 

Passing 'round from man to man. 
Smiling as he paused to watch them 

Sift the powder in the pan. 
i66 



Historical Ballads 

Deep and fast the ships' guns bellowed, 

Ball and shell screamed up the way, 
Tore away the rude abattis 

Where the rebel farmers lay. 
There was Stark to guard the lowlands^ 

Where the Mystic gurgles still, 
Stark behind the hay-thatched breastworks 

On the slopes of Bunker Hill. 

Time and time the English stormers 

Turned their faces toward the foe — 
Black as hell the musket muzzles 

Frowned above them, row on row; 
Waited ominously for them, 

Waited, till beyond recall. 
They should pass into the shadow 

Of that grim and silent wall. 

Time and time those gruesome muzzles 

Leapt from darkness into light ; 
Time and time the black smoke lowered 

To obscure the bloody sight ; 
Then again a fearful silence — 

There in windrows, stiff and still, 
Lay the valiant English stormers 

On the slopes of Bunker Hill. 
167 



Historical Ballads 

There was Howe within the valley, 

Urging on a new attack; 
There was Prescott on the hilltop 

Striving hard to beat them back; 
There, the city black and blazing. 

Here the hill all steeped in red, 
There, too, lay the noble Warren, 

In the rebel trenches, dead. 

Time and time the world has listened 

To the story often told. 
To the story of oppression, 

And the tyranny of old. 
Though the battle's roar is ended, 

Loud its echo ranges still — 
'Tis the voice of Freedom thund'ring 

From the slopes of Bunker Hill. 



PRINCETON 

Over the landscape the darkness, descending. 
Brought the last hour of a desolate day ; 

Silenced the din of a battle whose ending 
Left the bold victor of Trenton at bay. 
i68 



Historical Ballads 

Back of him rolled the dark torrent of water, 
Hopeless and rash were a plan of retreat ; 

Forward would add but a merciless slaughter 
Unto the gloom of impending defeat. 

What can be done? Ere the British are waking 

Some one must do, or some others must die, 
Soon will the dull, dreary morning be breaking. 

Some one must act ere the night has gone by. 
Far 'long the stream are the rebel fires gleaming ; 

Close by the gray bank the sentinels pace, 
And just across is Lord Cornwallis, dreaming, 

Dreaming of morn and the end of the chase. 

Over the landscape the daylight is creeping. 

Frosty and clear, in the east and the west ; 
Where are the rebels, the foes that were sleeping 

Back of those campfires now smoldered to rest? 
Only the Assanpink streamlet divides them. 

Look for them ! Look for them ! Look once again ! 
Is it the clear air of morning that hides them ? 

Where is the " fox " that was '' bagged ? " Where 
the men? 

There rolls the Delaware, eddying, foaming; 
Here are the British in battle array, 
169 



Historical Ballads 

Yonder the red sun has parted the gloaming, 
Bringing the dawn of a short winter day. 

There are the embers and ashes whose gleaming 
Lighted the sky through the long, wintry night, 

'Luring the worn British guards into dreaming. 
Sure that the rebels were lying in sight. 

Now they are gone. But whither, ah, whither? 

Hark ye ! Was not that the roar of a gim ? 
Simcoe and Erskine are hurrying thither, 

Dupes of the rebel, the bold Washington. 
Still through the clear, frosty air comes the warning, 

Distant, but plain ; 'tis the cannon's hoarse roar. 
Mawhood at Princeton is beaten this morning 

By the " old fox " that was " bagged " night before. 



LEXINGTON 

Revere had brought the warning, and had galloped on his 

way; 
With red and gold the eastern sky illumed the blue of day. 
When up the narrow street 
Came the steady tramp of feet. 
For the Redcoats march to Lexington this morning. 
170 



Historical Ballads 

There is Pitcairn on his charger, and the Colonel at his 

side, 
With swords and buckles all agleam, how gaily do they 
ride! 
With their militant array, 
Pressing onward Concord way, 
They are passing into Lexington this morning. 

The Minute-men are forming, they have gathered on the 

square, 
They can see the English banners waving gaily in the 
air — 
They can see the sword and gun 
Gleam and glitter in the sun, 
While the Redcoats march upon them in the morning. 

Still they wait upon the common, wait immovable and 

dumb. 
Watching Pitcairn and his soldiers as they near and 
nearer come ; 
They have heard the sharp command. 
Yet immovable they stand 
While the Britons form for battle in the morning. 

They have heard the muskets' rattle ; they have heard the 

Major's curse. 
Are they '' villains ? " Are they " traitors ? " and as such 

shall they disperse? 
171 



Historical Ballads 

Not a man will turn away 
Like a coward in dismay — 
They are facing death defiantly this morning. 

The Major draws his pistol, it has sounded through the 

air. 
A hundred guns are leveled, but the " villains " still are 
there — 
They await the Major's ire 
But an instant, and his " Fire ! " 
Comes plainly o'er the commons in the morning. 

A hundred guns have answered in a bellow fierce and 

loud; 
A hundred wreaths of smoke converge to form the battle- 
cloud 
That has hovered o'er the green, 
To obscure the bloody scene 
From the face of heaven smiling in the morning. 

There is Pitcairn on his charger, and the Colonel at his 

side. 
With swords and buckles all agleam, while onward now 
they ride. 
Past the commons dyed with red. 
Past the heroes lying dead, 
Marching gaily on toward Concord in the morning. 
172 



Historical Ballads 



THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG 

When Conrad captured Weinsberg, 

Eight hundred years ago, 
The Weinsberg people trembled 

At mention of the foe. 

A year the 'leagured city, 

From battered wall and tower. 

Had beaten back the foemen 
In defiance of their power — 

Till half the soldiers had not strength 

To climb upon the wall, 
Till earth refused them nourishment, 

And heaven frowned withal; 

Till fathers' hearts sank hopelessly. 
And mothers moaned and cried. 

Till sickening and famishing 
The children all had died. 

Then Conrad captured Weinsberg, 

In that far, olden time. 
When cruelty was virtue 

And mercy seemed a crime. 
173 



Historical Ballads 

But in despite of iron hearts, 
That claimed a bloody fee, 

Forth from the camp of Conrad 
Went out the mild decree, 

That Weinsberg, conquered Weinsberg, 

Should in her ashes lie; 
And though the men must suffer death 

The women should not die. 

But leave the fallen city, 

At the rising of the sun, 
Before the torch should be applied, 

Or butchery begun. 

Moreover, Conrad had decreed 
That each might bear away 

The trifle that she valued most 
At dawning of the day. 



Night waned apace, and from the east 

Uprose the smiling sun. 
The foemen formed on either side. 

The gates were open thrown, 

174 



Historical Ballads 

That from the dear old city, 

And dearer ones, alas, 
The Weinsberg wives and maidens 

Might with their trifles pass. 

They came ; the foemen saw them, 

And stood in silent awe. 
Then half amazed they backward pressed — 

What was it that they saw ? 

In through the narrow gateway 
Streamed far the broad, bright sun, 

While through the arch the Weinsberg wives 
Came stagg'ring one by one. 

Pallid and weak and starving, 

Out past the conqueror's host, 
Matron and maiden tottered 'neath 

The trifles valued most. 



Onward the line came reeling. 
Wild with grief and alarms ; 

Onward the Weinsberg women bore 
Their soldiers in their arms. 
175 



Historical Ballads 

It seemed that the grave was cheated 

Of skeleton and ghost, 
When th' women staggered through the gate 

With what they valued most. 

Then Conrad rising waved his hand, 
And forth went this decree, 
" The wives of conquered Weinsberg 
Have set the city free." 



170 



The Friends — A Medley 



THE FRIENDS — A MEDLEY 

Five friends, such friends as Damon and his friend, 
Together sat, one summer afternoon^ 
Beneath the spreading branches of an elm 
That skirted the fair border of a lawn. 
Before this company a fountain played 
Whose waters, ever rising in the sun, 
Made rainbows in the air, then falling, lay, 
Drops of bright silver on the blades of grass. 

Long time these friends in silence, musing, sat 
Regarding Nature's kind and fair display, 
With thought best suited, mayhap all as one, 
To each onlooker of the tinted scene. 
At length the host broke silence : " Oft have I 
With pleasure watched yon fountain's silver spray, 
And as the waters follow but one course. 
So always do my thoughts, and this it is. 
If I may dare to tell you, it is love — 
My days of courtship and a babbling brook 
Whose waters were as silvery as these." 
Then spoke another: "Ah, friend, I too thought, 
While watching yon bright liquid in the air, 

177 



The Friends — A Medley 

Of other waters, far, so far away — 

Of courtship and of love ; but unhke you, 

I found no pleasure, only sadness there." 

Then spoke a third : '' My thoughts have also gone 

The same fair road with those of both my friends ; 

And, as to both, some sadness and some joy 

Came flitting back from scenes of olden times." 

And then the fourth : " I will not tell you mine ; 

Too much 'twould seem that they were cut and coined 

To fit your own. I'll pass it to the next." 

*' I, fifth and last, make no confession ; but, 

With your permission, all, suggest a way 

By which we each may learn the others' thoughts : 

'Tis that each one, myself included, tell, 

In whate'er way doth suit him best, the tale, 

Love or not love whatever it may be, 

Suggested by the fountain's colored bow." 

To this they all agreed ; and while the four 

Sought other attitudes, the host began. 

AT THE BROOK 

'' We left the gate, and sauntered on, 
Till past the line of locust hedges, 
Till past the road that led to town, 
Till past the crumbling granite ledges ; 
178 



The Friends — A Medley 

'Tis somehow Cupid's fav'rite nook, 

A vale with waters sweetly flowing, 
Else why should lovers seek a brook 

As spot most suitable for wooing ? 

Perhaps 'tis that the waters bright 

Are, like the shining eyes that view them, 
Reflectors of a softer light 

Than ever finds its way into them ; 
Perhaps 'tis that the gurgling flow, 

With funny sounds like hits and misses, 
Now here, now there, now loud, now low, 

So much resembles lovers' kisses. 

At any rate we sat us down 

Beside the limpid rushing water — 
The wayward son of ' neighbor Brown,' 

With ' neighbor Green's ' dear, darling daughter. 
A bashful lad, what could I do? 

The theme of conversation lulling, 
The grasses that beside me grew 

I slowly, defty fell to pulling. 

The brook went dancing on its way. 

Went dancing to its own sweet singing; 
179 



The Friends — A Medley 

A robin on an osier spray- 
Sat chirping, nodding, swaying, swinging. 

The violets along the shore 

Smiled blandly in each other's faces ; 

I read the cowslips' fairy lore, 
And noted all their bold grimaces. 



And then I glanced into the brook — 

Ah! what a clear and brilliant mirror! 
I stole another bashful look, 

Then edged along a trifle nearer. 
Love really is a thing of haste. 

When soon or late one falls to wooing — 
I slipped my arm around her waist. 

All unawares what I was doing. 



She didn't run, but placed her head 

So delicately on my shoulder. 
And spoke of how the moss had spread 

Around the surface of ' yon boulder.' 
She spoke of how the summer sky 

Was mirrored in the sparkling water. 
And seemed to be content that I 

Had dared to squeeze her father's daughter. 
i8o 



The Friends — A Medley 

I know not now what dreams of bliss, 

What colored scenes passed o'er my vision. 
I only know a final kiss 

Signed, sealed, and settled our decision. 
And often now I steal a look 

At Mrs. Brown^ Green's lovely daughter — 
With such a prize caught by a brook. 

Ah ! who would fish in deeper water ! " 

The host ceased speaking, and a smile went round 
"A pretty picture, true, our friend has drawn; 
And memories of times therein recalled 
Should serve to brighten up the darkest day. 
But mine is not such picture; though with all 
The coloring of this one, it is flecked, 
The darker where the brighter tints should be. 
It does not blend to form the happy scene 
That Hope from such beginning might expect." 
Thus spoke the second, and his part began : — 

THE OLD CANOE 

" Like an upturned wreck on a lonely shore. 
Where the waves are sobbing evermore. 
Like a voice half heard in an olden dream, 
Or the mellow noise of a silvery stream, 

i8i 



The Friends — A Medley 

Where the seabird wheels in his lonely flight, 
And never a sail greets the weary sight, 
'Mongst the weeds that have pierced the old hulk 

through, 
Lies the crumbling wreck of the old canoe. 

Long years ago, when the summer breeze 
Scarce ruffled the breast of the tranquil seas. 
Sweet Ruth and I 'neath the azure blue 
Rode the sparkling waves in that old canoe. 
And her voice went out on the ebbing tide 
To the gray, cold rocks where the echoes hide ; 
And my heart with her song went floating away 
As we rocked on the tide through the beautiful day. 

Long years ago — but that voice is still 
'Neath the marble tomb on the somber hill. 
Where the willows bend to the shivering wind. 
And the ivy green o'er her grave has twined. 
Alone I walk the strand to-day ; 
Alone I watch the waves at play, 
As they chase each other through and through 
The broken wreck of the old canoe. 

There's a beautiful realm beyond the skies. 
Where a smile of peace forever lies; 

182 



The Friends — A Medley 

By the silv'ry sea on a tranquil shore, 

There a maiden waits forevermore, 

And softly veers her silken sail 

To catch the breath of the scented gale, 

And she times her harp with an anthem sweet. 

As she waits the approach of my weary feet." 

He paused, and sat in silence, gazing still 
As one whose thoughts have wandered far away, 
And seemed unconscious that a film of tears 
Obscured the colors playing on the fount. 

At length the next one spoke : " 'Tis now for me 
To draw an old-time picture that shall be, 
First, tinted as is yonder motley bow. 
And then erased, the golden sun gone down." 

THE SERPENT 

" Much that we see is but a dream ; 
Much that we claim is not our own ; 
Thus things will change, and what we deem 
As known is often quite unknown." 



" Soft hazel eyes one shone in mine. 
With love-light only lovers see, 
183 



The Friends — A Medley 

And music sweeter e'en than thine, 
O Fountain, sounded all for me. 

Not brighter were the summer skies. 
Nor sweeter was the skylark's song. 

Than were those long-lashed, hazel eyes — 
Than were the accents of her tongue. 

No fairer queen the world could boast; 

Her grace was Cupid's surest dart. 
I gave her what I value most, 

A faithful, honest, loving heart. 

And she returned, or so I thought, 

A purer love than I had given ; 
For more I had not wisely sought 

From God's sweet angels up in heaven. 

My nights were blessed by Love's fond dreams, 
Love's mellow skies o'erhung each day. 

And life, made up of subtle gleams. 
Was tinted like yon fountain's spray. 

How oft we through the woodland strolled 
And listened to the wood bird's song — 

The old, old story often told. 
Amused us as we walked along. 
184 



The Friends — A Medley 

How oft along the pebbled shore 
We wandered of a summer day! 

How oft we heard the far-off roar 
Of ocean rolling down the bay ! 

Ah! that was bliss, sweet bliss, indeed, 

And I the sharer of it all. 
For love will rise with eagle speed — 

Alas, 'twill even faster fall; 

Or so it seems to me as now 
I view it at this distant day — 

Her sweetest smile, her whispered vow 
Were in an instant flown away. 

She liked another more than me. 
Yet loved no one but self. In sooth. 

Her very heart at enmity 

With love, she boldly laughed at truth. 

The smiles that played an honest part 
Were but a cruel tyrant's snare. 

Her vows, a deadly, poisoned dart 
To pierce the victim taken there. 

It was for naught that I had done. 
Or thought or spoken — 'twas not so — 
185 



The Friends — A Medley 

'Twas her false heart. My heart being won 
She coldly turned and bade me go. 

She met me but to pass in scorn. 

As Satan from an angel grew, 
So from that which I loved was born 

A serpent of a sable hue. 

Yet with all this to ponder o'er, 
So much to breed a true alarm, 

I hold to what I held before, 

That angels walk in woman's form." 

No sooner had he ceased than spoke the fourth 
" There may be serpents clothed in human form, 
Yea, e'en the form that lovely women have. 
'Tis said that hell was peopled at the first 
By those that bore the blessed angels' form; 
And if there be the seed of hell in heaven. 
What is there not in this less holy sphere? 
But let me tell my tale, if tale it be. 
Of scenes, not persons, I remember well." 

THE MILL 

" Sweet are the sounds that greet my ear 
From yonder fountain's flow, 
i86 



The Friends — A Medley 

But sweeter those I seem to hear — 
The mill-stream, soft and low. 

It clamors through the little town; 

It ripples through the mill; 
No more the gates are fastened down, 

The stream flows on at will. 

The clank and clatter^ dash and roar. 

No longer hold their sway; 
The old mill's busy days are o'er, 

The miller gone away. 

But still the wheel turns 'round and 'round, 

With slow but steady whirl, 
A pleasing sight, a pleasant sound. 

To village boy and girl. 

The sun shines through the open roof, 

And flickers on the stream. 
The swallows' nests hang high aloof, 

The robins' on the beam. 

The spider weaves his filmy weft 

Within the deeper shade; 
And Ruin's eye has scarcely left 

A corner unsurveyed. 
187 



The Friends — A Medley 

What used to be a thrifty scene 
With wealth of noise, is still; 

For thirty years have passed between 
The miller and his mill. 



And half that time or more has gone 

Between the mill and me. 
But still I hear the wheel roll on. 

And still the mill I see, 

A grim, old, weather-beaten rack, 
With warped and sagging floor — 

The grass springs from the unused track, 
That leads up to the door. 

And 'yond a leafy willow-hedge 

The once high, jutting beam. 
Now sunken to the water's edge, 

Makes music in the stream. 



A hundred patrons on the list 
Once traveled in and out; 

But now the old mill's only grist, 
'S the lusty speckled trout 
i88 



The Friends — A Medley 

That sports within the deeper pool, 

Or where the riffles gHde. 
The angler takes the miller's toll, 

The patron's share beside. 



How oft I've sat in this same mill, 
And watched the mill-stream flow, 

And ripple 'gainst the sagging sill. 
With music sweet and low! 

How oft I've seen the busy throng 

Of swallows high aloof, 
And heard their twitter up among 

Their mud homes near the roof! 



Still laugh the shoals, the eddy sings. 
The old wheel throws its spray ; 

The hours flit by on golden wings. 
But never fly away. 

What though the busy days are gone ? 

Not thrift alone doth bless. 
For love has built her palace on 

The old mill's idleness. 
189 



The Friends — A Medley 

And in yon fountain's idle play, 

Its semblance lingers still ; 
My thoughts, like yours^ have gone love's way 

I have been through the mill." 



The fifth then took the commentary up : — 
" Thus is the game of life. One wins the prize. 
The angel, as it were, of his best self. 
To live with him, to smile on him, to be 
A source of joy and love throughout his years; 
And one but views the picture for a day. 
Enough to give him hope and dreams of joy, 
A brilliancy that, setting with the sun. 
Goes down forever. Still another finds 
Alternate shine and shade along his path 
To lead him on, then leave him groping, blind, 
To lead again till he but wonders which 
Of these will be the last, the shade or shine. 
But for myself, my thought were not like yours, 
Of brook or mill, or sweetheart lost or won, 
But rather of a passage lately read in Genesis. 
If I remember well it runs like this : " God said, 
' This is the token of — 



190 



The Friends — A Medley 



O FOUNTAIN, blest fountain, 

How gladly I see 
The wonders of heaven 

Reflected in thee! 
Thy voice is the voice of 

Thy Maker; his word 
Spoke peace to the ancients, 

Who smiled as they heard. 

O fountain, bright fountain, 
How blest is thy flow ! 

The promise of God I 
Have read in thy bow. 

His truth everlasting 
In colors appears, 

Unchanged and unchanging, 
, Through thousands of years. 

God's script that of old lit 
The dark, leaden skies, 

Now gleams from thy summit 
To gladden my eyes. 
191 



The Friends — A Medley 

O fountain, I feel that 

In glory thou art 
Of heaven's bright treasures 

But parcel and part. 

God's prophets have passed ; all 

The mighty are gone — 
God's word liveth still in 

The light of the sun. 
Cursed is he who has, through 

The years of life's span, 
Never noted how nigh is 

Man's Maker to man. 

His charms lie around us ; 

His voice in man's ear, 
A welcome, a warning — 

Ah, will he not hear? 
The floods of the earth have 

Subsided, and lo, 
God's covenant shines in 

Yon fountain's bright bow." 



193 



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